There is no doubt that in his present temper the Dey would have had his late colleague strangled on the spot, but, fortunately for himself, Sidi Hassan, instead of returning to his own house, went straight to the Marina, without having any definite object in view, save that he thirsted for vengeance, and meant to have it if possible.
On his way down he met the sapient interpreter, Blindi Bobi.
“Well, Bobi,” he said, making an effort to look calm, “any probability of a rising among the slaves?”
“Not much,” replied Bobi, in Turkish, shaking his head; “slaves don’t like to have their heads cut off and their skin torn away in bits.”
“True!” returned Hassan, smiling grimly. “Do you know where Sidi Omar is?”
“There,” said Blindi Bobi in reply, pointing to the individual in question, and sidling rapidly away.
“Something ails you, methinks,” said Omar, with a keen glance, as Hassan approached.
“Ay, the new Dey ails me,” returned Hassan, with a feeling of desperation, for he felt that he was committing himself in thus speaking to one whom he knew to be his enemy—but anger often leads men into unwise speech.
“Has he deceived you?” asked Omar, with a quiet smile.
“Truly, yes. Had I known him better he should not have had mine aid. My party followed me, not him. I could have led them otherwise, and still can.”