The play went on for several days, Mecca never repeating a message notified corrupt, but telegraphing in its place a fresh version toned down at each re-editing from the previous harshness. Finally, there came a long message, the first half a lame apology and withdrawal of the mischievous proclamation, the second half a repetition of the offence in a new form. I suppressed the tail, and took the head marked “very urgent” to Feisal’s tent, where he sat in the full circle of his staff officers.
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.”
In three hours we had settled timetables, and arranged for our successors here in Aba el Lissan, with their spheres and duties. I took my leave. Joyce had just returned to us from Egypt, and Feisal promised that he would come, with him and Marshall, to Azrak to join me on the twelfth at latest. All the camp was happy as I got into a Rolls tender and set off northward, hoping yet to rally the Rualla under Nuri Shaalan in time for our attack on Deraa.