Oh, it is an awful thing to feel that death is waiting for you constantly, that at any moment, at any turn, at any corner it may be upon you! Such was my state as I walked on that evening, waiting for the sunset, through the streets of Wazzan. At one moment I was conscious of a sound in my ears above the din of traffic—the Arrah of the ass-drivers, the Bálak of the men riding mules, and the general clamor of tongues. It was the steady beat of a footstep close behind me. I knew whose footstep it was. I turned about quickly, and Larby was again face to face with me. He met my gaze with the same cold, glittering look. My impulse was to fly at his throat, but that I dare not do. I knew myself to be a coward, and I remembered the Moorish prison.
"Larby," I said, "what do you want?"
"Nothing, Sidi, nothing," he answered.
"Then why are you following me like this?"
"Following you, Sidi?" The fellow raised his eyebrows and lifted both hands in astonishment.
"Yes, following me, dogging me, watching me, tracking me down. What does it mean? Speak out plainly."
"Sidi is jesting," he said, with a mischievous smile. "Is not this Wazzan—the holy city of Wazzan? Sidi is looking at the streets, at the mosques, at the saints' houses. So is Larby. That is all."
One glance at the man's evil eyes would have told you that he lied.
"Which way are you going?" I asked.
"This way." With a motion of the head he indicated the street before him.