Old Ismeddin, ragged and grimy among the glittering captains, smiled as he thought of an ancient score.
And then the Resident appeared to take his customary station at the left of the throne. He whispered in the sultan's ear; but not even the fan-bearers behind the throne could hear what he said.
The captains exulted at the great rage that flamed in the sultan's eyes as he rose from the dais. But the captains gaped stupidly when the sultan spoke.
"Take these sons of flat-nosed mothers back to their cells. I will deal with them later."
The court dispersed.
The lords and ministers escorted the sultan to his apartments. The brazen doors closed softly behind him, so that they did not see him hurl his turban to the floor, did not hear his simitar clang against the tiles, rebound, and clatter into a corner. Nor did they hear the Resident, materialized at the height of the storm, expostulate: "But, your Majesty, you may have them hanged, you know—have all of them hanged, in public—roll of drums and all that. But one simply can't have these dismemberings and impalings, you know. Barbarous, and uncivilized, and all that."
Then the sultan, as he twice struck together his hands: "Amru, an order: release the rebels! And to each, his own horse and a robe of honor!"
The Resident endured the sultan's eye for a full moment, and admirably concealed his alarm. Then he left the Presence, conscious of duty well done, even if in the shadow of a bowstring with a running noose: enraged princes do forget themselves, and the sanctity of Residents.
But Schamas ad Din issued no further orders. He and his nargileh fumed and bubbled on the flat roof of the palace....
Then the calm voice of Ismeddin: "A thousand years, saidi."