“Where is his body?”
“Ask the vultures! Ask the kites!”
“And thy witnesses?”
Hoping against hope, King turned and waved his hand. As he did so, being quick-eyed, he saw Ismail drive an elbow home into Darya Khan's ribs, and caught a quick interchange of whispers.
“These men are all known to me,” said the mullah. “They all have right to enter here. They have right to testify. Did ye see him slay his man?”
“Aye!” lied Ismail, prompt as friend can be.
“Aye!” lied Darya Khan, fearful of Ismail's elbow.
“Then, enter!” said the priest resignedly, as one admits a communicant against his better judgment.
He turned his back on them so as to face the Prophet's bed-sheet and the rear wall, and in that minute a hairy hand gripped King's arm from behind, and Ismail's voice hissed hot-breathed in his ear.
“Ready of tongue! Ready of wit! Who told thee I would lie to save thy skin? Be thy kismet as thy courage, then--but I am hers, not thy man! Hers, thou light of life--though God knows I love thee!”