“Dog,” said Ortho, suddenly cold about the heart, “what do you mean?”
“Surely the Kaid knows?” There was a note of surprise in the mendicant’s voice.
“I know nothing; I have been away . . . the lalla Ourida?”
The beggar locked both hands over his head and squirmed in the dust. “Kaid, Kaid . . . the will of Allah.”
The little court reeled under Ortho’s feet, a film like a heat wave rose up before his eyes, everything went blurred for a minute. Then he spoke quite calmly:
“Why did she not go away?”
“She had no time, lord. The little one, thy son, took the sickness first; she stayed to nurse him and herself was taken. But she was buried with honor, Kaid; the Turkish officer buried her with honor in a gay bier with tholbas chanting. I, miserable that I am, I followed also—afar. She was kind to the poor, the lalla Ourida.”
“But why, why didn’t Osman get them both away before the plague struck the palace?” Ortho muttered fiercely, more to himself than otherwise, but the writhing rag heap heard him and answered:
“He had no time, Muley. The kasba was the first infected.”
“The first! How?”