“Go, one of you,” he said, “and tell the glorious successor of the Prophet that the daughter of Beni Kalli awaits his pleasure.”
The chief man among the guards came forward and peered at them. His glance fell on the shrinking form by the side of this stalwart Bedâwi.
“’Tis well,” he said. “Even now the Holy One asked why she tarried. Who art thou, brother?”
“What, then, must the renowned son of Mahmoud suffer further delay?” cried Warden, even more loudly.
He risked a good deal, because some true Arab might be within earshot, and there are gutturals in the nomadic language of Northern Africa that no European throat can reproduce.
But his fearlessness was justified. A snarling voice reached them where they stood.
“Bring the girl hither,” it growled, and the two were allowed to pass instantly.
Warden’s heart throbbed a little faster as he half dragged the cowering negress across the courtyard. She knew what was going to happen, and had been coached as to her behavior, but she was only a child, and her fear was great for her father and herself. She could not believe that this gaunt Christian, the man whom she had seen working daily among the Nila Moullah’s slaves, could really accomplish the task he had undertaken. So she whimpered with fright, and would have run back shrieking if Warden had not caught her arm and whispered a few words of encouragement.
The prophet’s habit of concealing himself as much as possible from his adherents was now more helpful than a hundred armed men. He was supposed to pass day and night in meditation. None had ever seen him eat or sleep. To carry out this pose he seldom appeared from behind the thick mats which veiled the front of the room he occupied.