The girl looked stonily at the Moor.
"How was this, Selim?" she asked coldly. "Where was your watchfulness?"
The man spread out his hands.
"Am I a prophet—am I Allah Himself?" he cried aggrievedly. "There was a crowd—a press—in the Sôk yesterday, wherein one had scarcely room to take breath. And you have seen for yourself. Sidi Jan snatches at familiarities from such as that one; the nearer the gutter he finds his friends the better is he pleased."
She looked down at the delinquent, who, without being disconcerted, grinned back.
"John," she admonished him gravely, "you are never to speak or listen to strangers in the Sôk, or anywhere else."
John wriggled and pouted.
"I love the brown man," he answered defiantly.
"He's probably a wicked, wicked man," said his monitress. "Instead of playing with you on the sands, he'd very likely bite you—like a camel."
The eyes beneath the yellow mop grew round with interest.