“She has blasphemed,” said the Ulema.
Outside the house, quietness had given place to murmuring, murmuring to a noise, and a noise to a tumult, through which the yelping and howling of the village dogs streamed.
“She shall be torn to pieces by wild dogs,” said the Sheikh-el-beled.
“Let her choose her own death,” said Dicky softly; and, lighting a cigarette, he puffed it indolently into the face of the Arab sitting beside him. For Dicky had many ways of showing hatred, and his tobacco was strong. The sea has its victims, so had Dicky’s tobacco.
“The way of her death shall be as we choose,” said the Sheikh-el-beled, his face growing blacker, his eyes enlarging in fury.
Dicky yawned slightly, his eyes half closed. He drew in a long breath of excoriating caporal, held it for a moment, and then softly ejected it in a cloud which brought water to the eyes of the Sheikh-el-beled. Dicky was very angry, but he did not look it. His voice was meditative, almost languid as he said:
“That the woman should die seems just and right—if by your kindness and the mercy of God ye will let me speak. But this is no court, it is no law: it is mere justice ye would do.”
“It is the will of the people,” the chief of the Ulema interjected. “It is the will of Mussulmans, of our religion, of Mahomet,” he said.
“True, O beloved of Heaven, who shall live for ever,” said Dicky, his lips lost in an odorous cloud of ‘ordinaire.’ “But there be evil tongues and evil hearts; and if some son of liars, some brother of foolish tales, should bear false witness upon this thing before our master the Khedive, or his gentle Mouffetish—”
“His gentle Mouffetish” was scarcely the name to apply to Sadik Pasha, the terrible right-hand of the Khedive. But Dicky’s tongue was in his cheek.