He peered into the room, holding a lantern before him. “Kaid, are you there? Where are you? There is a riot of Draouia in the Djeema El Fna; two troops to go out. Oh, there you are—Bismillah! What is this?”
He sprang across to where Ortho lay and bent over him.
“What is the matter? Are you ill? What is it?”
“Nothing,” Ortho croaked. “Trying hasheesh . . . took too much . . . nothing at all. See to troops yourself . . . go now.” He coughed and coughed.
“Hasheesh!” The Turk sniffed, stared at him suspiciously, glanced round the room, caught sight of the girl and held up the lantern.
“Ha-ha!”
The two stood rigid eye to eye, the soldier with chin stuck forward, every hair bristling, like a mastiff about to spring, the girl unflinching, three beads of her black necklace in her teeth.
“Ha-ha!” Osman put the lantern deliberately on the ground beside him and stepped forward, crouched double, his hands outstretched like claws. “You snake,” he muttered. “You Arab viper, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”
Ortho hoisted himself on his elbow. The girl was superb! So slight and yet so defiant. “Osman,” he rasped, “Osman, friend, go! The riot! Go, it is an order!”
The Turk stopped, stood up, relaxed, turned slowly about and picked up the lantern. He looked at Ortho, walked to the door, hesitated, shot a blazing glance at the girl, gave his mustache a vicious tug and went out.