“Thirty-five,” said a wizened little man with a hectic cough, who looked fitter for a burial than a bridal.
“Forty!” cried another, a pure-bred Arab of stately appearance and saturnine expression, who wished to add to his harem.
“Forty-five,” answered the wizened man.
Then the Arab bid fifty, and for a while it seemed that these two alone were competitors. When the bids had reached seventy ounces the Arab muttered “Allah!” and gave up. He preferred to wait for the houris.
“Knock her down,” said the wizened man, “she is mine.”
“Hold on a bit, my little friend,” said the great Portugee, Xavier, who had passed the water-gate before Leonard and his companions. “I am going to begin now. Seventy-five.”
“Eighty,” said the little man.
“Eighty-five,” answered Xavier.
“Ninety,” screamed the other.
“Ninety-five,” said Xavier.