It was many a year since his ministrations to Kaid had ceased; but he had remained on in the Palace, doing service to those who received him, and--it was said by the evil-tongued--granting certificates of death out of harmony with dark facts, a sinister and useful figure.

His beard was white, his face was friendly, almost benevolent, but his eyes had a light caught from no celestial flame.
His look was confident now, as his eyes bent on Kaid.

He had lived long, he had seen much, he had heard of the peril that had been foreshadowed by the infidel physician; and, by a sure instinct, he knew that his own opportunity had come.

He knew that Kaid would snatch at any offered comfort, would cherish any alleviating lie, would steal back from science and civilisation and the modern palace to the superstition of the fellah's hut.

Were not all men alike when the neboot of Fate struck them down into the terrible loneliness of doom, numbing their minds?
Luck would be with him that offered first succour in that dark hour.
Sharif had come at the right moment for Sharif.
Kaid looked at him with dull yet anxious eyes.