“Nay, nay--sit still, thou. I can kick room for myself. So! So! So!”
There was an answering snarl of hate that seemed like a song to him, amid which he sat down.
“The mullah Muhammad Anim answered he knows nothing of thee and cares less! He said--and he said it with vehemence--it is no more to him where a hakim sits than where the rats hide!”
He watched King's face and seeing that, King allowed his facial muscles to express chagrin.
“Between us, it is a poor time for messages to him. He is too full of pride that his lashkar should have beaten the British.”
“Did they beat the British greatly?” King asked him, with only vague interest on his face and a prayer inside him that his heart might flutter less violently against his ribs. His voice was as non-committal as the mullah's message.
“Who knows, when so many men would rather lie than kill? Each one who returned swears he slew a hundred. But some did not return. Wait and watch, say I!”
Now a man stood up near the edge of the crowd whom King recognized; and recognition brought no joy with it. The mullah without hair or eyelashes, who had admitted him and his party through the mosque into the Caves, strode out to the middle of the arena all alone, strutting and swaggering. He recalled the man's last words and drew no consolation from them, either.
“Many have entered! Some went out by a different road!”
Cold chills went down his back. All at once Ismail's manner became unencouraging. He ceased to make a fuss over the dancer and began to eye King sidewise, until at last he seemed unable to contain the malice that would well forth.