"O Ali Higg! May Allah give you peace!"
"And to you peace!" Grim answered.
I could not see Grim's face, of course, since I stood behind him, but I did not detect the least movement of surprise or nervousness. He stood as if he were used to being called by that name, but the rest of us did not dare look at one another. Once across that railway-line we were in the real Ali Higg's preserves. It occurred to me at the moment as vastly safer to pose as the U.S. President in Washington.
Still, Grim had not actually accepted the situation yet. I held my breath, trying to remember to look like a product of Lahore University.
"We were on our way to El-Maan, O Ali Higg, not knowing that your honor had a hand in this affair."
"Since when is a lion not called a lion?" demanded Grim. "Who gave thee leave to name me?"
"Pardon, O Lion of Petra! But the woman yonder, boasting with proper pride that she is Your Honor's wife, bade us approach and pay respect."
On my left I heard Narayan Singh muttering obscenities through set teeth. On the right old Ali Baba wore a twinkle in a wicked eye; the rest of his face was as emotionless as the face of the desert; but when an old man is amused not even the crow's-feet can do less than advertise the fact.
"A woman's tongue is like a camel bell," said Grim. "It clatters unceasingly, and none can silence without choking it. But art thou a woman?"
"Pardon, O Lion of Petra!"