Hassan Agha, subjected to the same insult, only sneered and craved the freedom of one hand to wipe his face, which was denied him.
Somewhat allayed by this ceremony, the wrath of the judge put on the garb of reason. He had no longer the slightest compunction in sentencing those Muslims to a shameful death.
“In the name of Allah, you deserve to die, all of you. For not one misdeed, but a thousand are proved against you. These two men here before me, for their more abominable crimes, shall be strangled and left unburied. On the rest of you I have mercy: they will be shot. Subject to the will of the Mutesarrif, our Sultàn’s shadow on this land—whom may Allah preserve. In the name of Allah, gracious, compassionate, it is decreed.”
At that went up a bitter cry from all the multitude, but especially from those inquisitives who for pastime had thrust their way into the court. In hopes to save their comrades and one another, Nesìb and Ali each yelled his confession of guilt. But the uproar sufficed to drown individual voices. Curses, lamentations, prayers, mingled discordantly, while the soldiers struck here and there at the noisiest, felling some of them and fetching blood from mouths and noses. The hall of judgment wore the aspect of a shambles. From the dais beside the judge, the plump and smiling Christian gloated on the scene.
The disorder was at its height when a door at the back of the hall opened, letting in a ray of sunlight upon the hindmost of the crowd.
“Shut the door,” shrieked the Câdi, in sudden terror.
Instantly he was obeyed. But some one had entered. The soldiers, saluting, cleared a way for Abd-ur-Rahman Bey to the foot of the dais.
The face of the young man was haggard and hard set. At glad cries of his own name, he glanced this way and that unseeingly.
“Abd-ur-Rahman! It is himself—Abd-ur-Rahman. O son, preserve thy father. Save thy friends.”
He stepped upon the dais and, totally disregarding the cringe of the consul’s dragoman, addressed the judge without a compliment: