Tsamanni swung round upon him again, white now with fury.
“Is this a jest, O father of wind?” he cried, and excited laughter by the taunt implicit in that appellation.
“And thou’rt the jester,” replied Ayoub with forced calm, “thou’lt find the jest a costly one.”
With a shrug Tsamanni turned again to the dalal. “A thousand philips,” said he shortly.
“Silence there!” cried the dalal again. “Silence, and praise Allah who sends good prices.”
“One thousand and one hundred,” said Ayoub the irrepressible
And now Tsamanni not only found himself outbidden, but he had reached the outrageous limit appointed by Asad. He lacked authority to go further, dared not do so without first consulting the Basha. Yet if he left the sôk for that purpose Ayoub would meanwhile secure the girl. He found himself between sword and wall. On the one hand did he permit himself to be outbidden his master might visit upon him his disappointment. On the other, did he continue beyond the limit so idly mentioned as being far beyond all possibility, it might fare no less ill with him.
He turned to the crowd, waving his arms in furious gesticulation. “By the beard of the Prophet, this bladder of wind and grease makes sport of us. He has no intent to buy. What man ever heard of the half of such a price for a slave girl?”
Ayoub’s answer was eloquent; he produced a fat bag and flung it on the ground, where it fell with a mellow chink. “There is my sponsor,” he made answer, grinning in the very best of humours, savouring to the full his enemy’s rage and discomfiture, and savouring it at no cost to himself. “Shall I count out one thousand and one hundred philips, O dalal.”
“If the wazeer Tsamanni is content.”