Perhaps it is his looks, but more probably the gleaming yataghan he flashes from its sheath that scares the amazed valet into speech.
“I don’t know—I played my part—I believed it was Miss Dorothy—there’s some trickery here?” is what he gasps.
“Trickery! yes, I see; he believes he has again outwitted a pasha. Once more I am robbed of a bride, but this blade shall drink his blood. It was forged in the fire of revenge! Nothing can save you now, dog of a Christian!”
The Turk has gone mad—his appearance is positively fearful. Dante could find inspiration for his pictures of the Inferno by looking upon his frenzied countenance, scowling and blazing with the wrath that has been bottled up all these years, to burst its bonds at last.
He means every word he speaks, and backs it up by swinging on high the flashing blade.
The extraordinary temper of Damascus steel has long been the theme of song and story, and the skill which the Saracens of old displayed in handling their precious blades has been sung again and again. With a strong and well-trained arm, vengeance-driven, using such a weapon, it would not be difficult to sever a man’s head from his body at a single stroke.
As this yataghan, the pet weapon of Arab and Algerian, cuts the air in flashing curves, the tragedy of the Midway seems about to reach its climax.
A scream breaks forth. Saidee, the fortune teller, has thrown her form in front of the old speculator.
“You shall not strike him save through my heart, pasha!” she shrieks.
The Turk has started back as she comes between his weapon and its intended victim; but his confusion is only momentary. Then over his dark face spreads a smile that is absolutely fiendish. He intended taking one victim—two will do just as well.