Thrusting the glasses into the imám’s hand, I took my Colt repeater from my pocket, and, having peered for some seconds steadily in the direction of the dimly visible Darwîsh, I opened fire! I had fired five shots in the heat of my anger at that sinister crouching figure, ere Abû Tabâh seized my wrist.
“Stop!” he cried; “do you forget where you stand?”
Truly I had forgotten in my indignation, or I should not have outraged his feelings by firing from the minaret of a mosque. But sufficient of my wrath remained to occasion me a thrill of satisfaction, when, peering through the dusk, I saw the Darwîsh throw up his arms and disappear from view.
“There is blood in the courtyard,” said Abû Tabâh; “but Ahmad es-Kebîr has fled. Therefore he still lives, and his anger will be not the less but the greater. Depart from Cairo, M. Bréton: it is my counsel to you.”
“But,” cried Felix Bréton, glaring wildly at the big canvas on the easel, “I must finish my picture. As Yâsmîna is alive, she must return, and I must finish my picture!”
“Yâsmîna cannot return,” replied Abû Tabâh, fixing his weird eyes upon the speaker. “I have caused her to be banished from Cairo.” He raised his hand, checking Bréton’s hot words ere they were uttered. “Recriminations are unavailing. Her presence disturbs the peace of the city, and the peace of the city it is my duty to maintain.”