“Msa l kheir, lalla!” said he, making a mock salaam. She snorted, defiant to the end. Ortho strode out and along the gallery. His cheek stung like fire, blood was trickling from the scratches, his jaw was stiff from the jolt it had received. What a she-devil!—but, by God, what spirit! He liked women of spirit, they kept one guessing. She reminded him somewhat of Schems-ed-dah back in Sallee, the same rapier-tempering and blazing passion, desert women both. When tame they were wonderful, without peer—when tame. He hesitated, stopped and fingered his throbbing cheek.
“What that she-devil would like to do would be to cut me to pieces with a knife—slowly,” he muttered. He turned about, feeling his jaw. “Cut me to pieces and throw ’em to the dogs.” He walked back. “She would do it gladly, though they did the same to her afterwards. Tame that sort! Never in life.” He stepped back into the room and picked the girl up in his arms. “Wild-cat, I’m going to attempt the impossible,” said he.
Even then she struggled.
The town was afire, darting tongued sheets of flame and jets of sparks at the placid moon. Soldiers were everywhere, shouting, smashing, pouring through the alleys over the bodies of the defenders. As Ortho descended the stairs a party of Sudanese broke into the courtyard; one of them took a wild shot at him.
“Makhzeni!” he shouted and they stood back.
A giant negro petty officer with huge loops of silver wire in his ears held a torch aloft. Blood from a scalp wound smeared his face with a crimson glaze. At his belt dangled four fowls and a severed head.
“Hey—the Kaid Ingliz,” he said and tapped the head. “The rebel Basha; I slew him myself at the breach. The Sari should reward me handsomely. El Hamdoulillah!” He smiled like a child expectant of sweetmeats. “What have you there, Kaid?”
“A village wench merely.”
“Fair?”
“So so.”