But the remaining ear was pointed at the top like a satyr's, and his little beady eyes were as black as a bird's and inhumanly bright.
The banker spoke to him in the voice you would use to a rather spoilt child when obedience was all-important, using Arabic with a few French words thrown in.
"Ah, here is Francois.

Good Francois! Francois, mon brave, here is a letter, eh?
You know where to take it--eh?
Ha-ha! Francois knows, doesn't he! Francois doesn't talk; he tells nobody; he's wise, is Francois! He runs, eh?
He runs through the rain and the night; and he hides so that nobody can see him; and he delivers the letter; and somebody gives Francois money and tobacco and a little rum; and Francois comes running back to the nice little, dark little hole where he sleeps.

Plenty to eat, eh, Francois?
Nice soft food that needs no chewing! Nothing to do but run with a letter now and then, eh?
A brave fellow is Francois--a clever fellow--a trustworthy fellow--a dependable, willing fellow, always ready to please! Ready to go?
"Well, there's the letter; be careful with it, and run-run-run like a good boy! A whole bottle of rum when you come back--think of it! A whole bottle of nice brown rum to yourself in that nice little room where your bed is! There, goodbye!" The creature addressed as Francois vanished, with a snort and a sort of squeal that may have been meant for speech.

"That is the best messenger in Syria," said Rene.

"He is priceless--incorruptible, silent, and as sure as Destiny! The French General Staff will have that letter before dawn.