A tall scantily clad negro, of the type of Mohammed, was the most fanatical and the most dangerous "saint" I met. He was begging alms at the entrance to a courtyard when he saw me passing. He carried a staff in his hand which he used principally to strike Jews and Christians. It was not the stick that troubled me, but instead the habit he had of spitting in the face of Christians. As he peered into my face, detecting my Christian features despite my attempt to disguise them, I saw his mouth moving as if he were preparing to attack me after his vile custom. I hurried out of his range, and escaped the spittle. My quickness enraged him, and he called after me in Arabian. I had heard the words often enough to know that they meant:
"Dog of a Christian, may your grandmother roast! Why shouldst thou avoid the spittle of a saint? It would be the only thing blessed upon thee, seeing that it came from the mouth of a saint!"
I darted down a side street and into a doorway, hoping to rid myself of the pest, but he followed quickly and caught sight of my place of refuge.
"Dog of a Christian," he cried again, poking me in the chest and ribs with his staff, "why do you offend Mohammed by treading the same ground as true believers?"
My blood mounted as I smarted beneath his cudgel. I decided that I would fare just as well by resisting as by submitting, so I ducked my head and dived into the stomach of the fellow, upsetting him. This turned out to be, in the eyes of the Moslems, a great sacrilege. It appeared that while the alleged holy man had entire freedom to beat me, I had committed a crime by doing violence to his body. He made a tremendous uproar as he rose from the dust, and the noise drew a crowd that began to pummel me. I plunged deeper into the doorway, and, having seized the stick of the marabout, whirled it before me in a vigorous fashion. A storm of stones and sticks beat upon me.
While I was on my knees, expecting a rush that would trample me to death, I suddenly heard a familiar voice above the shrieks of the mass.
"Dogs of the desert, how dare you trouble the slave of a good Mohammedan? This Nazarene is the slave of my master, friend of the Bashaw! Is my lord a Jew or a Christian that you would destroy his property before the eyes of a witness? The slave was assaulted first. I swear by the Prophet that he is a gentle slave, and intended no injury to the holy man. Off with you before I call the soldiers of the Bashaw!"
The crowd dispersed. Grumbling, the marabout departed.
I looked into the twinkling eyes of Mustapha. Snatching the marabout's staff from my hand, he began to pelt me across the shoulders. "It is necessary that I do this," he whispered, "the people are watching."