The Moor made a sweeping motion of the hand, as if he suddenly dropped the subject of conversation from a higher plane to a lower.
"The children of the Sôk!" he cried contemptuously. "Khabyles—Arabs—Susi—Riffs! What are they? Little more than vermin; their ranks are replenished all too quickly as it is! But this one! Here we tell a different story, do we not?"
Aylmer halted in his examination of the wounded pastern and looked up. There was something arresting in the Moor's vehemence.
Absalaam caught the look and shrugged his shoulders.
"The Sidi has not visited Tangier for five or six weeks?" he said.
Aylmer nodded. And waited. He had had a good deal of experience of the Moor and his conversational methods. He was aware that the deferring of a climax till it could be launched on a tide of tantalization was the chiefest of them.
"Therefore, Sid' Aylmer," continued the Moor, "you have not heard all the tales which center round this small one's fortunes?"
Aylmer smiled and prepared to give his attention again to his horse. It was left to Rattier to ruin the pyramid of stimulation.
"What tales?" he demanded laconically.
Absalaam's brown eyes met both question and questioner with melancholy—almost, indeed, with scorn. How could one titillate, how could one embroider, how could one work up to a brave display of interest, if bald facts were to be wrung from one at this stage of a tale? He sighed.