"Mais si, Monsieur!"
"Eh bien, je vais lutter contre l'homme avec la rose. C'est un lutteur arabe. Voulez-vous-y assister?"
"Mais, pour bien sur, Monsieur."
"All right, then, by God!" Shane looked square at Ahmet Ali. "We'll wrestle right here and now."
"But the stones, the street," Ahmet Ali looked surprised. "You might get hurt."
"We'll wrestle here and now."
"Oh, all right." The Arab lifted an expressive shoulder. Carefully he removed the great white robe and handed it to an attendant. To another he gave the rose. Shane handed his coat and hat to a saturnine French corporal. Ahmet Ali took his shirt off. Kicked away his sandals. There was the dramatic appearance of an immense bronze torso. The Syrians smiled. The French soldiers looked judicially grave. Ahmet Ali stood talking for an instant with one of his men, a lean bilious-seeming Turk. The Turk was urging something with eagerness. The wrestler's soft girl's face had concentrated into a mask of distaste. He was shaking his head. He didn't like something.
"How God-damned long are you going to keep me here?"
Ahmet turned. There was a smile on his face, as of amused, embarrassed toleration. He was like a great athlete about to box with a small boy. And the boy in earnest.
"Ready?" he asked.