“By the Rawallah, Effendi.”
“Are they a Bedouin tribe?”
“The greatest of them all.”
“Then why should they undertake the duty?”
“Because it is the will of the one who saved her for you, Effendi! I am blessed that I have set eyes upon him, spoken with him. Paradise is assured to me because my hand returned to him his turban when it lay in the dust!”
Graham stared, looking from his wife, who lay back smiling dreamily, to Mohammed, whose dark eyes burnt with a strange fervour—the fervour of one mysteriously converted to an almost fanatic faith.
“Are you speaking of our old friend, the pedlar?”
“I am almost afraid to speak of him, Effendi, for he is the chosen of heaven, a cleanser of uncleanliness; the scourge of God, who holds His flail in his hand—the broom of the desert!”
Graham, who had been pacing up and down the room, paused in front of Mohammed.