“Dogs of the Sultan,” screamed a man on the gate-tower. “Little dogs of a big dog, may Gehenna receive you, may your mothers be shamed and your fathers eat filth—a-he-yah!” His chance bullet hit the ground in front of Ortho, ricocheted and found the man from Tafilet. He rolled over, sighed one word, “nkhel”—palm groves—and lay still.
His companions immediately rifled the body—war is war. A shining edge, a rim of silver coin, showed over a saddle of the peaks. “G mare!” said the soldiers. “The moon—ah, now!”
The whispers and laughter ceased; every tattered starveling lay tense, expectant.
In the village the drums went on—thump, thump; thump, thump. The moon climbed up, up, dragged herself clear of the peaks, drenching the snow fields with eerie light, drawing sparkles here, shadows there; a dead goddess rising out of frozen seas.
The watchers held their breath, slowly released it, breathed again.
“Wah! the mines have failed,” a man muttered. “The powder was damp. I knew it.”
“It is the ladders now, or nothing,” growled another. “Why did the Sari not bring cannon?”
“The Tobjyah say the camels could not carry them in these hills,” said a third.
“The Tobjyah tell great lies,” snapped the first. “I know for certain that . . . hey!”
The north corner of the kasba was suddenly enveloped in a fountain of flame, the ground under Ortho gave a kick, and there came such an appalling clap of thunder he thought his ear-drums had been driven in. His men scrambled to their feet cheering.