'Stop!' said Suleymân peremptorily. 'You are mistaken. That is our cook—a good, religious man, but mad occasionally.'
'No, there is no mistake, O lords of honour,' cried a score of voices; while the old man who had pointed out the cook to me, explained:
'He said—may God protect us from the blame of it!—He said: "You see that mountain! It is I who made it. Prostrate yourselves before me for I made the world." We had been standing round him inoffensively, asking him questions, as the custom is, about his parentage, his trade, and so forth. But when we heard that awful blasphemy we rent our clothes, and ran in haste to fetch our weapons, as thou seest. Delay us not, for he must surely die.'
'Commit not such a wickedness! The man is mad.'
'No; he is sane.'
'Quite mad, I do assure you. Return with us, and I will prove it to your understanding,' cried Suleymân.
I added my assurance. They came back with us, but murmuring, and in two minds. I could not but admire the simple piety which prompted them at once to kill a man whose speech betrayed him as an atheist. But I was very much afraid of what might happen, and of the sad impression it would make upon my English friends. And everything depended on the cook's behaviour.
'I tell you he is mad,' said Suleymân, advancing towards the fire. 'It were a sin for you to slay a fellow-creature thus afflicted. Come hither, O Mansûr,' he cried as to a dog.
The cook rose up and came towards us with a foolish air.
'Lie down before my horse. I would ride over thee.'