“Then tell him to sing,” shouted Ferodia, laughing.
“Sing!” replied Selim. “How long, oh Allah! shall I suffer these tortures? Sing! As well might you ask the dead to sing!”
“What, will he do nothing, then? I will wait until the marts of thy rough hand have been cured, when I will make marks of my own on that hide of his,” said Ferodia, with a wrathful glance in his eye. “But where is that whip of thine, Tifum?”
“Here, my chief, at the door of the house,” said he, rising to fetch it.
“Give it me.” And giving Selim a severe stroke with it across his shoulders, he ordered him to stand back, and Tifum to cut the bonds of the boys Abdullah and Mussoud.
Then, commanding the youths to be brought before him, he told Tifum to tell Abdullah to dance and Mussoud to sing.
For awhile Abdullah hung down his head in confusion, not seeming to understand or to realise that he, the son of Mohammed, was actually required to dance by the slayer of his father; while Mussoud looked from Abdullah to the chief Ferodia’s face in quite a foolish way.
“Ask him, Tifum,” said Abdullah, in a trembling voice, “if Ferodia understands what he requires of me.”
“Why need I ask him? Do I not tell you that he commands you to dance, and the other slave to sing?”
“Slave!” shouted Abdullah, recovering quickly firmness of tone in his voice. “Slave! Lying dog! Do you call my brother a slave? Am I a slave?”