“It is absurd that I should die for that in which I have never had belief,” said Fardet. “And yet it is not possible for the honour of a Frenchman that he should be converted in this fashion.” He drew himself up, with his wounded wrist stuck into the front of his jacket, “Je suis Chrétien. J'y reste,” he cried, a gallant falsehood in each sentence.
“What do you say, Mr. Stephens?” asked Mansoor, in a beseeching voice. “If one of you would change, it might place them in a good humour. I implore you that you do what they ask.”
“No, I can't,” said the lawyer, quietly.
“Well then, you, Miss Sadie? You, Miss Adams? It is only just to say it once, and you will be saved.”
“Oh, Auntie, do you think we might?” whimpered the frightened girl. “Would it be so very wrong if we said it?”
The old lady threw her arms round her.
“No, no, my own dear little Sadie,” she whispered. “You'll be strong! You would just hate yourself for ever after. Keep your grip of me, dear, and pray if you find your strength is leaving you. Don't forget that your old aunt Eliza has you all the time by the hand.”
For an instant they were heroic, this line of dishevelled, bedraggled pleasure-seekers. They were all looking Death in the face, and the closer they looked the less they feared him. They were conscious rather of a feeling of curiosity, together with the nervous tingling with which one approaches a dentist's chair. The dragoman made a motion of his hands and shoulders, as one who has tried and failed. The Emir Abderrahman said something to a negro, who hurried away.
“What does he want a scissors for?” asked the Colonel.
“He is going to hurt the women,” said Mansoor, with the same gesture of impotence.