“Where is the holy man? I have money to give into his charge. May I not see him?”
“He is at his devotions but what is that? Am not I the same? Do I not watch when he prayeth—Inshallah—please God we are the same. Give me the bag.”
“Here it is,” said she, pulling out the money; “seven hundred sequins, my daughter’s marriage portion; but there are bad men, who steal, and there are good men, whom we can trust. Say I not well?”
“It is well said,” replied I, “and God is great.”
“You will find the money right,” said she. “Count it.”
I counted it, and returned it into the goat’s-skin bag. “It is all right. Leave me, woman, for I must go in.”
The old woman left me, returning thanks to Allah that her money was safe; but from certain ideas running in my mind, I very much doubted the fact. I sat down full of doubt. I doubted if the old woman had come honestly by the money; and whether I should give it to the head dervish. I doubted whether I ought to retain it for myself, and whether I might not come to mischief. I also had my doubts—
“I have no doubt,” interrupted Mustapha, “but that you kept it for yourself. Say—is it not so?”