His screams to Allah could have been heard in Mecca. His wild horses strained at their tethers, neighing piteously at the frightful cries arising from the canvas abbatoir that had once been the happy bachelor apartments of the Sheik Amut Ben Butler.
The humps of the camels grew pale with fright and misery.
The swash-buckling horde of Amut’s men, after getting what strings of information they could from the gasping Spaghetti, took to the palm trees from whence they tried to make it plain to Allah that their beloved master had gone up against a sheitana, which the same is a lady devil of the first water, and that really something should be done to save him but that nothing—nothing short of heaven could really avail.
Meanwhile, the proud Verbeena just roweled that lofty, haughty boy to rags.
And ever, ever, ever, ever, always the hatpin! The more he reared to plunge the fairer the mark.
Truly now had he become what first she had called him—a Shriek. But as not less than a thousand shrieks sounded the plentifully punctured passionut of the Sahara!
Besides ordinary damage his proud soul goosefleshed with horror.
His hauteur became hiatic.
And yet—and yet how wonderful she was!