Still “It is hard to believe,” shrugged the Câdi, smiling.
“The men are already condemned. It is clearly proved against them,” said the Nazarene, at his ear, as a needed reminder.
“Then it is the worse for thee, O Yûsuf Effendi,” cried Abd-ur-Rahman, in a fury. “I go hence to the French telegraph; and if before the sun sets, the wrath of Milhem Pasha is not loosed against all the Mutesarrifate of El Cûds, may Allah strike me dead this minute.”
With that and a moan, “O my father!” he pushed his way out. Once more the door opened, admitting a sunbeam, then closed again. A hush was on the seated crowd. The Câdi returned to his beads for countenance, his downcast face in the shadow of a great perplexity. The cheerful Christian whispered at his ear:
“Had that old man been in truth his father, would he not have run and embraced him? Not once did he look toward him, for I observed closely. Moreover, this sheykh resembles not in the least a man learned and of a good house.”
For the first time cordial with his vile associate, Yûsuf agreed.
“By Allah, the right is with thee. But who is this Milhem Pasha? His name is known to me. What is his exact position at this day?”
“Who knows? Doubtless he is a pasha like another. Every youth cries up his own house.”
Still the Câdi was ill at ease. He dared not dismiss the prisoners for execution, yet had nothing more to say to them, having given sentence. He desired earnestly to be rid of the spy at his side, who crippled him with a sense of undesirable publicity.
Seeing the beast yawn and look sleepy, he begged him with all customary blessings to retire and seek repose. The trial was ended, the doom pronounced. The rest consisted in a few formalities unworthy of his assistance. He or his Excellency the consul could come after sunset to the Tower to see the bodies.