“They are good,” he said, nodding his head.
“Too good,” replied Gerard, gravely. “But it is as well that you did not use them against us.”
To the Moors this rejoinder seemed the very cream of wit. The Basha rocked in his saddle at the mere idea that his trenches could have been designed against the French.
“No, indeed! We are true friends of your Excellency and your people. We know that you are just and very powerful too. These trenches were intended to defend our sacred city from the Zemmour.”
“Oh, the Zemmour! Of course,” exclaimed Gerard, openly scoffing.
The Zemmour were turbulent and aggressive and marauders to a man. They lived in the Forest of Mamora and sallied out of it far afield. But they were also the bogey men of the countryside. You threatened your squalling baby with the Zemmour, and whatever bad thing you had done, you had done it in terror of the Zemmour.
The Basha was undisturbed by Gerard de Montignac’s incredulity.
“Yes, the Zemmour are very wicked people,” he said, smiling virtuously and apparently quite unconscious that he himself presided over a city of malefactors and cutthroats. “But now that you have taken us poor people under your protection we feel safe.”
Gerard smiled grimly and Captain Laguessière stroked his fair moustache and remarked: “He has a fine nerve, this old bandit.”
“And when did you expect the Zemmour?” asked Gerard.