Then, rolling up one of the sleeves of his vest, he exhibited a fore-arm hairy as skin of a wolf, and knotted with veins as large as one's thumb.
"I say, master, where's the cleaver?"—He again began, as he cast round his eyes in search of that instrument. But instead of replying to this inquiry, the Prophet put many questions to his disciple.
"Were you below when just now some new travellers arrived at the inn?"
"Yes, master; I was coming from the slaughter-house."
"Who are these travellers?"
"Two young lasses mounted on a white horse, and an old fellow with a big moustache. But the cleaver?—my beasts are hungry and so am I—the cleaver!"
"Do you know where they have lodged these travellers?"
"The host took them to the far end of the court-yard."
"The building, which overlooks the fields?"
"Yes, master—but the cleaver—"