The Arab shuddered at sound of those names, and silently nodded. Then he burst out:
"Those were their names, M'almé! Those two, disguised as Hujjaj, defiled the Black Stone, which was given by Allah to the first Arabs; and they both escaped. But many others who have tried—"
"Have died at the hands of thy people?"
"Bismillah! Yea!" A flash of pride irradiated the dark face of Rrisa. His figure drew itself erect. Beneath the veneer of civilization with which life among the Feringi had overlaid him, the Master sensed the wild, fierce, free soul of the desert man, to whom the death of the unbelieving dog is sweet.
"It is well," nodded the Master. Then, suddenly he stood up, faced the
Arab, and bent on him a sternly penetrant look.
"Rrisa," said he, impressively, his voice slow, grave, sonorous, "only for me thy bones would today be moldering in the trenches at Gallipoli or maybe rotting in a Turkish grave. The life that is in thee belongs to me! That is thy ancient law. Is it not true?"
"It is true, Master. Nahnu malihin." (We have eaten salt together.)
"And the salt is still in thy stomach?[1]"
[Footnote 1: Some Arab tribes hold that the salt binds protection for only twenty-four hours and at the end of that time must be renewed, otherwise it is "not in their stomachs.">[
"Aye, Master. You are still dakhil (protected) to me."