"Confound his impudence!" broke in Mr. Barkworth. "What right----what are you laughing at, Burnaby? Why--God bless me, you don't mean there's anything in it? Eh? What? 'Gad, I'm delighted, delighted, immensely pleased, old man!--Look at them in the garden, Jack; aren't they a fine couple, now!"
"They're rather young yet, Barkworth, eh?"
"Young! Of course they're young. Makes me young again myself to see them there, God bless them! Call 'em in; I must shake hands with Tom, the young dog; I know him!"
"I'd let 'em alone if I were you, Barkworth. Come round to the stables, and I'll tell you what Underwood said to me."
It is early morning in Zanzibar. The Arab quarter is scarcely astir; there are few passengers in its narrow tortuous lanes, with their square houses, each standing aloof, dark, repellent, prison-like for all its whitewash. But in the market-place the slant rays of the sun light up a busy scene. In and out among the booths of the merchants and the unsheltered heaps in which the lesser traders expose their wares, moves a jostling crowd--negroes of Zanzibar; visitors from the coast tribes; Somalis from the north; Banyamwesi, even Baganda and Banyoro, from the far interior--chattering, chaffering, haggling in a hundred variants of the Swahili tongue. Now and again the half-naked crowd parts to make way for a grave stately Arab in spotless white, with voluminous turban, or for some Muscat donkey whose well-laden panniers usurp the narrow space.
Suddenly above the hum of the market rises a strident voice. The wayfarers turn, and see a gaunt, bent, hollow-eyed figure in mendicant rags; standing on a carpet at the entrance of an alley, he has begun to harangue with the fervour of madness all who choose to hear.
"Hearken, ye faithful, sons of the Prophet, hearken while I tell of the shame that has befallen Islam! Verily, the day of our calamity has come upon us! Woe unto us! woe unto us! The hand of our foes is heavy upon us; they lie in wait for us, even as a lion for harts in the desert. Wallahi! the land was ours, from the sun's rising unto its setting, from the marge of the sea unto the uttermost verge of the Forest. Where now are all they that went forth, and in the name of Allah got them riches and slaves? Where are the leaders of old--Hamed ben Juna the mighty, Sefu his son strong in battle, yea, and the great Rumaliza? All, all are gone! I alone am left, even I, the least of their servants. The Ferangi--defiled be their graves!--shall they afflict us for ever? Are we dogs, that here, even here in our birthplace, the land of our fathers, we slink from the foot of the infidel? Awake, awake, O ye slothful! Haste ye! haste ye! Smite the Ferangi and spare not! Grind them into the dust; yea, crush them, destroy them utterly. Do ye linger or doubt? Behold, I will lead you! Lo, my sword!--is it not red with infidel blood? Let us sweep like the whirlwind upon them; like the lightnings of Allah will we rend and consume them. They that pollute our land shall be stricken, and none shall be left, no, not one alive for the wailing. By the beard of the Prophet I swear it!"
"Essalam alekam!" says a Somali in respectful greeting to a venerable seller of sweetmeats. "Who is he, O Giver of Delight?"
"Knowest thou not, O Lion of the Desert? He is a mad nebi from the Great Forest afar."
"Mashallah! And his name, O Kneader of Joy?"