From the hour of the restoration of his treasure the Sheik had been true
to his oath; his tribe in all its branches had held the French lascar in
closest brotherhood; wherever they were he was honored and welcomed; was
he in war, their swords were drawn for him; was he in need, their houses
of hair were spread for him; had he want of flight, the swiftest and
most precious of their horses was at his service; had he thirst,
they would have died themselves, wringing out the last drop from the
water-skin for him. Through him their alliance, or more justly to speak,
their neutrality, was secured to France, and the Bedouin Chief loved him
with a great, silent, noble love that was fast rooted in the granite
of his nature. Between them there was a brotherhood that beat down the
antagonism of race, and was stronger than the instinctive hate of the
oppressed for all who came under the abhorred standard of the usurpers.
He liked the Arabs, and they liked him; a grave courtesy, a preference
for the fewest words and least demonstration possible, a marked opinion
that silence was golden, and that speech was at best only silver-washed
metal, an instinctive dread of all discovery of emotion, and a limitless
power of resisting and suppressing suffering, were qualities the nomads
of the desert and the lion of the Chasseurs d'Afrique had in common; as
they had in unison a wild passion for war, a dauntless zest in danger,
and a love for the hottest heat of fiercest battle.
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