Sakr-el-Bahr laughed. “Thou’lt tell me next that I am afraid. Yet I should counsel thee to wait until thou hast smelt blood and powder, and learnt precisely what fear is.”
The slight altercation drew the attention of Asad’s officers who were idling there. Biskaine and some three others lounged forward to stand behind the Basha, looking, on in some amusement, which was shared by him.
“Indeed, indeed,” said Asad, laying a hand upon Marzak’s shoulder, “his counsel is sound enough. Wait, boy, until thou hast gone beside him aboard the infidel, ere thou judge him easily perturbed.”
Petulantly Marzak shook off that gnarled old hand. “Dost thou, O my father, join with him in taunting me upon my lack of knowledge. My youth is a sufficient answer. But at least,” he added, prompted by a wicked notion suddenly conceived, “at least you cannot taunt me with lack of address with weapons.”
“Give him room,” said Sakr-el-Bahr, with ironical good-humour, “and he will show us prodigies.”
Marzak looked at him with narrowing, gleaming eyes. “Give me a cross-bow,” he retorted, “and I’ll show thee how to shoot,” was his amazing boast.
“Thou’lt show him?” roared Asad. “Thou’lt show him!” And his laugh rang loud and hearty. “Go smear the sun’s face with clay, boy.”
“Reserve thy judgment, O my father,” begged Marzak, with frosty dignity.
“Boy, thou’rt mad! Why, Sakr-el-Bahr’s quarrel will check a swallow in its flight.”
“That is his boast, belike,” replied Marzak.