“Bismillah!” ejaculated Mohammed as soon as the Greeks had disappeared. “Can I believe my eyes? That scoundrel has got the impudence of Sheitan, and must be in league with the spirits of Eblis.”
“Who is he? do you know him?” eagerly asked Tom and Charley almost in one breath of the Turk, who exhibited all the appearance of stupefied astonishment.
“Mashallah! do I know him?” gasped out Mohammed, his emotion nearly choking him. “Allah is great and Mohammed is his prophet—do I know him?” he repeated, taking a long draw at his chibouque as if to calm his nerves, while he lay back for a moment motionless amid his cushions.
“Well, who on earth is he, Mohammed?” demanded Tom abruptly—“that is, unless the a—medicine—has got into your head.”
While the Greek had been talking to Charley in the first instance, it may be mentioned that Tom had dexterously transferred the bottle of brandy to the keeping of the Turk, who had secreted it behind his back, after turning half aside and pouring out a pretty good dose into his coffee-cup, all with the most rapid legerdemain as if he were a practical conjuror.
“Effendi,” said Mohammed with dignity, “you insult me by such a remark. The sight of that man—that Grec, that villainous piratt, quite overwhelmed me.”
“Pirate!” said Charley, for Tom was too much abashed by the Turk’s rebuke to speak.
“Yes, piratt,” repeated Mohammed firmly. “That would-be simple Grec sailor, as he represented himself to you, was no one else than Demetri Pedrovanto, better known in the Aegean Sea, as ‘The Corsair of Chios.’ There’s a price of ten thousand piastres on his head. Mashallah! How he dares show himself in Beyrout, amongst the enemy he has plundered, I know not. However, kismet! ’tis his fate, I suppose.”
“Are you sure?” asked Charley, who was inclined to think that Mohammed was cramming them.
“Effendi, throw dirt on my beard if I lie. It is Demetri Pedrovanto, sure enough.”