I had just muttered:
“I suppose it is their native soil. They have lived here all their lives, like animals born in a cage, and they know no other world.”
Then I caught sight of my guide, whom I had forgotten, glued against the wall, peering, ever so cautiously, out of one of the tower loopholes, aiming with his fingers, as if he held a rifle. From head to foot, he looked a perfect brigand.
I followed the cue. Who knew the occupation of these people from one year’s end to the other? The brief halt of passing caravan told one nothing of that. Did raids go forth from those grim walls when hunger pressed, and all was quiet about them? It was more than likely. Certainly they possessed an unfettered freedom that gave outlet to that wildness of the wilderness that was in them, which ran, unknown to living soul outside their own little world, untamed and unchecked, through the shadowy alleys and dark dens within the walls, and, mayhap, found a fiercer outlet in evil-doing abroad.
The hard-featured natives of the town are Beri-Beri. They are strangely animal-like, in general, perhaps because of their terrible environment, and their life is an underworld of vice.
“THE DEN OF THE FORTY THIEVES”
I ceased pondering, and called the guide from his look-out.
I asked him one question before we began the descent from the tower:
“How many men have you killed?”