His secretary worked out the despatch, and handed the decipher to Feisal. My hints had roused expectation, and all eyes were on him as he read it. He was astonished, and gazed wonderingly at me, for the meek words were unlike his father’s querulous obstinacy. Then he pulled himself together, read the apology aloud, and at the end said thrillingly, “The telegraph has saved all our honour.”

A chorus of delight burst out, during which he bent aside to whisper in my ear, “I mean the honour of nearly all of us.” It was done so delightfully that I laughed, and said demurely, “I cannot understand what you mean.” He replied, “I offered to serve for this last march under your orders: why was that not enough?” “Because it would not go with your honour.” He murmured, “You prefer mine always before your own,” and then sprang energetically to his feet, saying, “Now, Sirs, praise God and work.”