Just one other tableau. Two tall youths engaged in a frenzied combat with Somali swords, terrible-looking long knives, as broad almost as a spade. The swiftness of stroke and parry or shield is truly marvellous; but at last, as if by a single accord, the awful knives and eke the shields are cast aside, and they clutch each other with deadly grip and fierce: they fight for the throats. See, they are both rolling on the sand, but one at last is victorious, his talonlike, long bony fingers have closed upon his adversary’s neck. He beats his head against the sand, till eyeballs and tongue protrude, then he slowly rises, and retreats a pace or two, still with his eyes on his supposed foe. He feels backwards with his hand till he touches a sword, he seizes it, and with a yell springs forward again and stands triumphant over his fallen fellow, the deadly knife just grazing his neck. Will he strike? No, for here the combat ends. By and by the vanquished Indian lad will gasp and sigh, and presently rise, slowly and feebly, and creeping seawards, refresh himself with a dip beneath the waves.
But to return to the room where the Arabs are.
“They do tell me at Zanzibar,” said the dark and soldier Arab, “that in Europe they place machines beneath the waves, which, if a ship do but strike, she is blown to death and destruction. Could we not import these? Money would not be wanting, and you, Mahmoud, have the key to good foreign society. Oh I fancy the glory of blowing up a British cruiser—!”
“Talk not thus,” was the reply, “nor let us even dream of forsaking the form in which our fathers fought. With sword and spear, and Allah’s help, they conquered the North, they overran the West, and laid even the might of Spain in the dust. Let us bide our time. Long has it been dark, but the dawn will come. A prophet will arise. He will conquer the world in Allah’s name, and every man, woman, or child who adopts not the true faith will be put to the knife.”
“Oh! these will be glorious times, Mahmoud.”
“Gloat not over them, Suliemon. It is still with the spirit of revenge you speak. Think of future wars and executions as but necessities, the darkness of the inevitable clouds, that will be dispelled by the glorious rising sun of peace and joy.”
“Revenge,” muttered Suliemon, through his set teeth. “Curb not my feelings, Mahmoud. They are just. Think what I have suffered from British cruisers. Thrice have they run me on shore, twice have they burned my dhows. To-day I would be wealthy but for them. Curses on them, I say!” he thundered, half drawing his sword, and sending it ringing back into the sheath again.
“Stay, brother, stay; I will not sit and hear such exclamations. Allah is good, but tempt him not, or he may leave you to a fate worse than that which befel your own brother in Zanzibar.”
“Yes, my brother was hanged, hanged at the hands of those infidel dogs. Oh! Mahmoud, Mahmoud, can you wonder if I sometimes forget myself, forget your teaching, and loose grip of our religion? My wife, too, Mahmoud, chased on shore—death by jungle fever. Would you have me forget that also, Mahmoud?”
“Yes,” said Mahmoud, solemnly; “I’d have you forget even that.”