I tried in vain to pacify him. I explained that the choice of language had been Abdul Ali's, and offered to tell him now in French every word that had passed. But he would not listen.
"It would not be difficult for a man of your intelligence to make up a story," he said rudely.
"Abdul Ali can talk French. If it had been intended that I should know the truth that conversation would have been in French. Shall I send your bag to Abdul Ali's house?"
"No," I said. "Give it to Anazeh. He is answerable for my safety until I reach Palestine again. Thank you for a night's lodging."
He walked away in a great huff, and I set out for the house of
Abu Shamah, using my scant store of Arabic to ask the way.
Mahommed ben Hamza was lolling on the stone veranda, gossiping
with half-a-dozen men. He came the minute I beckoned him.
"I've seen Jimgrim," I said. "You're to come with me at noon to the mejlis as my interpreter."
He grinned delightedly.
"And see here, you smelly devil: Here's money. Buy yourself a clean shirt, a new coat, and some soap. Wash yourself from head to foot, and put the new clothes on, before you meet me at the castle gate ten minutes before noon. Those are Jimgrim's orders, do you understand?"
"Taht il-amr! (Yours to command)" he answered laughing.
I went and bought myself an awful meal at the house of a man who rolled Kabobs between his filthy fingers.