Nesìb nodded, speechless. He grew calmer after that. For minutes together he watched the sunny lane with scarce a sob; but then the grief which gnawed his vitals would again assert itself, and Ali would break forth again in imprecations, and renew his oath of vengeance.
“See, I pull off my boots,” he said. “There shall be no warning, no betraying footstep. The dog shall fall suddenly as by the hand of Allah.”
He dragged off the homemade boots of goatskin, which he wore for riding, and set them before Nesìb to perfect assurance.
“Hush! One approaches. I hear the voice of slippers.”
Peeping cautiously out, Ali drew back quickly.
“It is the black. He hastens. He has heard of the tumult. Let us hide behind the stall a moment. Quick, I help thee. Y’Allah! He is acquainted with the sherbet seller.”
“I would fain see him,” whispered Nesìb, stifling a sob.
The footsteps paused before the entry, the negro looking for his old acquaintance, but they quickly went on. Ali stole forth, crouching, swift and noiseless as a leopard to the spring.
The Thief heard a gurgled cry, then three long groans, ere Ali crept back out of the sunshine, and placed in his hands the dagger, warm and wet.
Still sobbing a little, reminiscently, Nesìb took the dagger and surveyed it lovingly, stroking and fondling it in his lap.