“Be quick; the nuptials of thy daughter are preparing; the merchant is here; he is below; arrange her and come down with her.”
At the sight of Baïla, the merchant could not restrain an exclamation of admiration; then almost immediately, with a commercial manœuvre he threw up her head, preparing to examine her with more attention.
During this inspection the young girl blushed deeply; the father and mother seeking to read the secret thoughts of the merchant in his eyes and face, kept a profound silence, beseeching lowly their patron saint for success in the matter.
The man in the turban changing his course, and as if he had come merely to lay in a supply of honey, took up one of the two samples deposited on a table, and taking up some with his finger tasted it.
“This honey is white and handsome enough, but it wants flavor. How much is the big measure?”
“Twelve thousand,” the mother hastened to reply.
“Twelve thousand paras?”
“Twelve thousand piastres.”
The merchant shrugged his shoulders—“You will keep it for your own use then, my good woman.” He then went toward the door.
The woman made a sign to her husband not to stop him. In fact, as she had foreseen, he stopped before reaching the door, and turning toward the master of the house said—