"The Lord will provide," growled Zantut from the height of his mehari.
"Son of a flat-nosed mother," muttered the beggar as he adjusted the patch over his right eye, "you would be amazed if you knew what the Lord will provide for you!"
He stroked his long beard, and grinned evilly.
"Alms, in the name of Allah, alms!" he whined, the stout savagery of his expression changing swiftly to one more in keeping with his position as he noted the approach of a tall slave in a striped kaftán.
The slave tossed him a coin, glanced quickly about him, then stooped and muttered in the mendicant's ear.
"What's this?" demanded the beggar. "Released? How, and by whom?"
"My lord the Shareef ordered it. Both the infidel and the lady Azizah left just a short while ago."
"Left?"
"Yes. With the darvish Zantut and his pious companions."
"Father of seven hundred pigs!" stormed the beggar. "Son of calamity! Where is the Shareef?"