"That is a matter within your discretion, for yourself." He laid his hand upon the child's shoulder. "But this one goes with me."
A grin of rage flashed across the Moor's features. With one hand he made a quick clawing snatch at the child's arm; the other he plunged into his bosom. As it reappeared a knife blade flashed in the sun.
Mere instinct made Aylmer throw up his arm in defence. Experience and presence of mind bade him fling himself to one side without removing his knee from the path of his assailant. Matters followed the usual course when this old trick of the desert is put in action. The fellow tripped, plunged forward over the outsprawled limb, and fell crashingly upon his elbows.
Aylmer's first thought was for the knife which gleamed upon the planking half a dozen yards away. He scrambled to his feet and, without troubling to bend, gravely kicked it into the sea. At the same time he was aware of a commotion behind him. The small child's voice was raised in anger.
"I hate you—I hate you!" he declaimed. "Now Selim will get me!"
There was a reason for his wrath. Panting, blowing, and, to be frank, looking uncommonly like an over-driven buffalo, the Moor attendant was speeding down the pier with outstretched arms furiously gesticulating. The flap of his slippers slammed upon the boards, boat boys jeered, hotel touts made comments which no Bowdler could render into reputable English. And a few yards behind him—Aylmer's heart gave a queer little leap at the sight—ran totteringly the white-clad lady, his mistress.
The child made an angry gesture of repulse.
"I won't go back!" he shrilled. "I won't, I won't!"
He looked round towards his new-found friend, who was scrambling to his feet. He ran towards him.
Aylmer stretched out a hand and whirled the child up, facing towards the Moor. The latter hesitated, looked towards the advancing figures, and hesitated no longer. Behind the lady ran a couple of the newly raised Spanish police.