“Open, open, O cursed heathen! Down with the door! The door yields not. Bring fire. Who has fire?”
A woman’s voice squealed within. The assailants paused to hear what was said.
“What is this, forsooth? Merciful Allah, are these manners? ‘A thousand knock-knock-knocks and no salâm aleykûm.’ Ismaìl is out. I will not open. I shall tell of you to the hakìm.”
At that the hammering, the shouts, and the yells redoubled, till of a sudden some one cried, “Look up!” and all eyes sought the roof line. There, leaning on the parapet, was the hakìm himself. He held a gun, not pointed menacingly, but simply, as it seemed, for their inspection.
“Go, or I shoot!” he cried.
Even as he spoke, a knife whizzed so near as to graze his cheek. The muzzles of a dozen guns commanded him. Then some stones flew up; but by that time he was no more seen.
“Ha, ha! He is an old woman, this great hakìm!” shouted Hassan. “Another kind of English led the fight at Kars. This is no better than some skulking townsman. O shame, to bear the insult of such an one.”
Derisive laughter mingled with the howl of execration. But, realizing that the business was like to go beyond a frolic, many Christians and other chance allies began to edge away.