“Pronounce, O Nesìb the Thief, thou lord of two good eyes. What seest thou?”
“I see nothing marvelous. Yonder is a man in white raiment, praying toward Mekka. And here, not far distant, is a black donkey at grass, bearing a pack saddle, but no load thereon.”
“Ha, ha! Is there light to tell black from white?”
“Others may not, but the Thief can surely.”
“The man is a Bedawi. Let us take his head with the others. So shall my sons be avenged. Praise be to Allah! We know now that they go to El Cûds, these dogs; and we go also to El Cûds. Are they not between our two hands?... Yon wretch has finished his prayers. Let us slay him and reap his head.... What kind of man is he? I cannot see for the light beyond.”
Fatmeh could bear it no longer. She screamed aloud in her alarm for Mâs. Immediately she was seized and lifted, struggling, to her feet. Men thronged upon her. She smelt men and horses.
They had pulled aside her veil, yet knew not who she was; not one of them had seen her face before. Her knees gave way, her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. She could only moan and whimper under indignities, and think with terror of the Sheykh Shems-ud-dìn. For disobedience this shame was come upon her.
“Stop! Hold your hands!... O my lord Hassan, I beseech thee, let her go. She is of the house of my master, the Sheykh Shems-ud-dìn,” cried the voice of a man out of breath—the voice of Mâs.
On the instant, as it seemed to her, she was free. She straightened her veil, clutching for support at the saddle of the horse nearest to her. But instead of the saddle her touch encountered the bristled skin of a head—a man’s head. She gave one look ere her shriek went forth. There were two of them, with bloated tongues protruding.
At her cries a laugh went up from the horsemen.