“Let’s go and rout him out, and shame him into putting the men in shelter,” said Maurice.
Wylie shook his head. “I daren’t,” he said. “It would only mean quartering them upon the Christian inhabitants of the village over there. That’s what’s bound to be done at last, I suppose, but one wouldn’t care for the responsibility of hurrying it on.”
He looked over the straggling houses of the place, which was visible at this point round the shoulder of a hill, flat-roofed, dingy white, huddled together apparently for the sake of company rather than protection, then brought his eyes back to the face of the old sergeant, who had advanced and was saluting again.
“Is the Bimbashi Bey come hither to serve in the new Gendarmerie?” he asked respectfully.
“No; merely to visit a friend,” answered Wylie.
“God be praised!” responded the old man, with evident satisfaction.
“Now why?” demanded Maurice, when Wylie had translated the question. “Make him say.”
The sergeant needed some pressing, but at length gave his reason boldly. “The Bey Effendi’s eyes are of the cruel colour,” he said. “Never have I beheld eyes more cruel, and I have seen many men.”
Wylie’s disconcerted face made Maurice insist upon a translation, which delighted him extremely. “Ask the old blighter if he really believes that rot,” he demanded.
“The Bimbashi Bey’s eyes will indeed strike terror into his enemies, so that they will flee before him and he will grind them to powder,” returned the sergeant, anxious to be conciliatory. “But his own men would fain see his eyes like those of the young Effendi, his friend.”