"How?" said the Kadi.
"With this knife," said the police.
The knife, stained, and still wet, was handed to the judge. He shook it, and asked the prisoner one question: "Why?"
Then the Berber flung himself on his knees—his shaven head brushed my hand—and began to plead extenuating circumstances. "It is true, my lord, I killed him, but he called me dog and infidel, and spat at me—"
The Kadi gave back the knife and waved his hand. "Take him away," he said.
That was all, as my guide interpreted it. "Come," he whispered again, and he led me by a passage into a sort of closet where a man lay on a mattress. This was the porch to the prison, and the man on the mattress was the jailer. In one wall there was a low door, barred and clamped with iron, and having a round peephole grated across.
At the next instant the police brought in their prisoner. The jailer rattled a big key in the lock, the low door swung open, I saw within a dark den full of ghostly figures dragging chains at their ankles; a foul stench came out of it, the prisoner bent his head and was pushed in, the door slammed back—and that was the end. Everything occurred in no more time than it takes to tell it.
"Is that all his trial?" I asked.
"All," said my guide.
"How long will he lie there?"