“Bring fire! Burn the door! Make fire the baw-wâb!” cried one of the Circassians.
At once the more zealous of his comrades tried to coax a flame by means of foreign matches and rags torn from their own clothing. But already the more lukewarm were dropping off. The sight of some running made others run. The panic became general. Hassan did not hinder the flight. He considered enough had been done for the present to scare the Frank.
“Stop running. Scatter! scatter!” he shouted for their instruction.
In a moment, had the watch appeared, they would have found no mob, but divers groups of men walking inoffensively—nay, timidly—in divers directions. Like a sand storm in the desert of the south, the riot had arisen, raged, and was clean gone, all in a short quarter of an hour.
“Where is our good fellâh? Where Ali? Where Nesìb?” said Hassan to Shibli, who had clung to him throughout the tumult. “Small wonder if some were swept astray by that sudden blast. Allah pardon! Saw man ever the like of it?”
He proceeded to make inquiry of those he saw stationary in the markets, if anyone had seen a tall old man of a noble countenance, attended by one who seemed a beggar, in all respects, saving only that he did not beg. At last one answered:
“I have seen the very man; and with them a lean old negro who kept grinning without mirth,” and pointed out which road the three had taken.