The fine sons of one of the most superstition-ridden races in the world performed divers tricks to placate the fury of the false god of ill-luck they had raised up in their minds, then continued in their merriment.
“Who has seen the shaven head?”
“No eyes have seen the head, O brother, but mine own eyes have seen Namlah the Busy, seated like a bee in the heart of a golden flower, weaving a kerchief from the infidel’s wondrous hair.”
Bowlegs shouted with laughter.
“Yea! verily! a kerchief to replace the gentle Zarah’s garments, torn asunder ’twixt her teeth and fingers in her wrath at the white man’s coldness.”
“Or to wipe the tiger-cat’s face, which, wet with tears and hot with anger, was like an over-ripe fruit of the doom tree, fallen upon the sand!”
“Or to remove the dust from her chamber, wrecked like unto a house swept by the hurricane, with feathers of many fowl, liberated from the burst cushions, clinging to the silken curtains and her hair.”
Prodded by Fate, the handsome youth turned and laid his hand on Yussuf’s arm whilst the men crowded closer yet to listen to their conversation.
“O brother,” he said laughingly, “thou who hast suffered, thou who even now dost pass sleepless nights of pain, wilt thou not in thy goodness, to quieten the agony of the tiger-cat’s gentle heart, give unto her a few drops of the sweet water prescribed thee by yon old herbalist for sleep?”