"Are the horses in thy father's stable, then, of no swiftness and of no strength?"
It was said in the patois, the bastard Arabic of the Tunisian bled. A shadow had fallen across them; the voice came from above. From the height of his crimson saddle Si Habib bel-Kalfate awaited the answer of his son. His brown, unlined, black-bearded face, shadowed in the hood of his creamy burnoose, remained serene, benign, urbanely attendant. But if an Arab knows when to wait, he knows also when not to wait. And now it was as if nothing had been said before.
"Greeting, my son. I have been seeking thee. Thy couch was not slept upon last night."
Habib's face was sullen to stupidity. "Last night, sire, I slept at the caserne, at the invitation of my friend, Lieutenant Genet, whom you see beside me."
The Arab, turning in his saddle, appeared to notice the Christian for the first time. His lids drooped; his head inclined an inch.
"Greeting to thee, oh, master!"
"To thee, greeting!"
"Thou art in well-being?"
"There is no ill. And thou?"
"There is no ill. That the praise be to God, and the prayer!"