Tadros frowned and looked glum.
“But the girl is mine!” he exclaimed.
“And the papyrus is mine,” returned Kāra. “Perhaps I could buy two or three like Nephthys with it; but never mind, it shall be yours in the way of exchange.”
Tadros moved uneasily and cast a longing glance at the roll.
“I like not this barbaric traffic in womankind,” he muttered, with indecision.
“Nor I,” agreed Kāra. “It is Sĕra who is to blame. If she has a fat daughter, she will want a fat price for her. Otherwise, how can she be recompensed for the girl’s keep? But five hundred is too much for Nephthys. I would have to give her mother the other two hundred and fifty piastres myself—and you would have the roll. By Isis, ’tis a bad bargain! Here; let us say no more about it. Give me the papyrus.”
“Wait—wait!” cried Tadros. “Why are you so unjust in your conclusions? The bargain is made. No one but a sneaking Arab goes back on his word.”
“It is as you say,” replied Kāra, stretching his long arms and yawning. “But it is a fine papyrus, Tadros—all about the Kheta and King Rameses.”
“I know; I know!” returned the dragoman, nervously tucking his prize under his arm. “Come with me at once. I will inform Sĕra of the transfer of my property.”
He rose to his feet a little unsteadily, because his throat still hurt him, and led the way.