"Ye have the word of the mighty Saladin," said the sage, touching
his cap in sign of reverence--"a word which was never broken
towards friend or foe. What, Nazarene, wouldst thou demand
more?"
"I would have ocular proof of thy skill," said the baron, "and
without it thou approachest not to the couch of King Richard."
"The praise of the physician," said the Arabian, "is in the
recovery of his patient. Behold this sergeant, whose blood has
been dried up by the fever which has whitened your camp with
skeletons, and against which the art of your Nazarene leeches
hath been like a silken doublet against a lance of steel. Look
at his fingers and arms, wasted like the claws and shanks of the
crane. Death had this morning his clutch on him; but had Azrael
been on one side of the couch, I being on the other, his soul
should not have been left from his body. Disturb me not with
further questions, but await the critical minute, and behold in
silent wonder the marvellous event."
The physician had then recourse to his astrolabe, the oracle of
Eastern science, and watching with grave precision until the
precise time of the evening prayer had arrived, he sunk on his
knees, with his face turned to Mecca, and recited the petitions
which close the Moslemah's day of toil.
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