“By the Angel Gabriel, I promised my wife, whose own sister she is, not to part with her for less than twenty thousand, for the honor of the family.”
Baïla, who had drawn her veil around her figure, perceived that the bargain was concluded; and, unable to restrain herself, burst into sobs. The door of the room was at that moment opened roughly. A man of lofty stature and imperious look, walked straight up to the desolate girl; he raised her veil, that veil which, though it concealed her tears, could not drown her sobs.
“How much for this slave?” he asked.
“She is mine,” said the khashadar.
“How much?” he repeats.
“But I am her purchaser, and not her seller,” said the little old man, rising on his toes, so as to approximate his length toward that of the interlocutor.
The latter thrust him aside with a glance of contempt. “I came here,” he said, “to make a purchase to the amount of nineteen thousand piastres.”
“Twenty thousand is her price,” observed the seller.
“I offer twenty-five thousand for her,” he replied, throwing the veil over the figure of Baïla.
The merchant bent himself; the khashadar, though pale with rage, restrained himself, for he had recognized in his rival Ali-ben-Ali, surnamed Djezzar, or the Butcher, the pacha of Shivas.