“At the gate there were only words!” he whispered. “Here in this cavern men wait for proof!”
He licked his teeth suggestively, as a wolf does when he contemplates a meal. Then, as an afterthought, as though ashamed, “I love thee! Thou art a man after my own heart! But I am her man! Wait and see!”
The mullah in the arena, blinking with his lashless eyes, held both arms up for silence in the attitude of a Christian priest blessing a congregation. The guards backed his silent demand with threatening rifles. The din died to a hiss of a thousand whispers, and then the great cavern grew still, and only the river could be heard sucking hungrily between the smooth stone banks.
“God is great!” the mullah howled.
“God is great!” the crowd thundered in echo to him; and then the vault took up the echoes. “God is great--is great--is great--ea--ea--eat!”
“And Muhammad is His prophet!” howled the mullah. Instantly they answered him again.
“And Muhammad is His prophet!”
“His prophet--is His prophet--is His prophet!” said the stalactites, in loud barks--then in murmurs--then in awe-struck whispers.
That seemed to be all the religious ritual Khinjan remembered or could tolerate. Considering that the mullah, too, must have killed his man in cold blood before earning the right to be there, perhaps it was enough--too much. There were men not far from King who shuddered.
“There are strangers!” announced the mullah, as a man might say, “I smell a rat!” But he did not look at anybody in particular; he blinked at the crowd.