I had hardly uttered the words, when an Arab, who had attracted my notice by the attention he had paid to my tricks, jumped over four rows of seats, and disdaining the use of the “practicable,” crossed the orchestra, upsetting flutes, clarionets, and violins, escaladed the stage, while burning himself at the foot-lights, and then said, in excellent French,
“I will kill you!”
An immense burst of laughter greeted both the Arab’s picturesque ascent and his murderous intentions, while an interpreter who stood near me told me I had to deal with a Marabout.
“You wish to kill me!” I replied, imitating his accent and the inflection of his voice. “Well, I reply, that though you are a sorcerer, I am still a greater one, and you will not kill me.”
I held a cavalry pistol in my hand, which I presented to him.
“Here, take this weapon, and assure yourself it has undergone no preparation.”
The Arab breathed several times down the barrel, then through the nipple, to assure himself there was a communication between them, and after carefully examining the pistol, said:
“The weapon is good, and I will kill you.”
“As you are determined, and for more certainty, put in a double charge of powder, and a wad on the top.”
“It is done.”