Pog threw a piercing glance on Erebus, and said, in a measured, hollow voice:
“These words come from his lips, his heart will give the lie to his language.”
“You are mistaken, Captain Pog; only land your demons on the beach of La Ciotat, and you will see if the brightness of the flames which will broil the French in their hole will prevent my following Hadji to the castle of that old Provençal.”
“And once in that castle, what will you do, my boy?” said Trimalcyon, with a mocking air. “Will you ask if the beautiful girl has not a skein of silk to wind, or if she will permit you to hold her mirror while she combs her hair?”
“Be quiet, Full-Bottle, I will employ my time well. I will sing for her the song of the emir, a song worthy of Beni-Amer, which that fox, Hadji, made her listen to so well.”
“And if the old Provençal finds your voice disagreeable, he will give you a leather strap, as if you were a badly taught child, my boy,” said Trimalcyon.
“I will reply to the old gentleman by seizing his daughter in my arms, and singing to him those verses of Hadji:
“‘Till sixteen years old, the daughter belongs to her father.
“At sixteen years old, the daughter belongs to the lover.’”
“And if the good man insists, you will give him, for your last word, your kangiar to end the conversation?” “That comes of course, Empty-Cup. Who carries off the daughter, kills the father,” added Erebus, with an ironical smile.
Trimalcyon wagged his head, and said to Pog, who seemed more and more absorbed in his gloomy thoughts: “The young peacock is laughing at us, he is jesting, he will do some shepherd-swain nonsense with that girl.” “Has the French spy returned from the islands?” asked Pog of Erebus.