Kouïdah, the boy, who was ever about, ran barefoot from the court into the café to tell of the doings of Ben-Abid, and in a moment the people crowded in, Zouaves and Spahis, Arabs and negroes, nomads from the south, gipsies, jugglers, and Jews. There were, too, some from Tamacine, and these were of all the most intent.
“Where is Halima?” went up the cry. “Where is Halima?”
“Who calls me?” exclaimed the voice of a girl.
And Halima came out of her door on the first terrace at the left, splendidly dressed for the dance in scarlet and gold, carrying two scarlet handkerchiefs in her hands, and with the hedgehog’s foot dangling from her girdle of thin gold, studded with turquoises.
Ben-Abid stood below in the court with Sadok by his side. The crowd pressed about him from behind.
“Thou hast called me the son of a scorpion, Halima,” he said, in a loud voice. “Is it not true?”
“It is true,” she answered, with a venomous smile of hatred. “And thou hast said that the hedgehog’s foot, blessed by the great marabout of Tamacine, would avail naught against the deadly sickness of a dancing-girl. Is it not true?”
“It is true,” answered Ben-Abid.
“Thou art a liar!” cried Halima.
“And so art thou!” said Ben-Abid slowly.