He was, however, preparing a terrible proof for the influence of the Mingrelian. Baïla, irritated at having been suspected, was already raising her voice higher.
“Listen,” said the pacha, imposing silence by a gesture, and appearing himself to hearken to a certain movement which was manifested without. She listened, but heard nothing but a low, confused, monotonous and regular sound, like that of threshing.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing—nothing at all,” he replied.
Both remained thus, for a time, attentive; the noise was repeated, but did not increase. Djezzar became impatient, and, yielding to the feeling, struck his hands.
“Have not my orders been executed?” he demanded of the Mangrebian slave who appeared.
“They have, son of Ali; but in vain have we used on this Christian cords armed with lead and thongs of the skin of the hippopotamus; in vain have we moistened and sprinkled his gaping wounds with pimento and lemon juice; he has not uttered a cry or a groan.”
“What does he, then?” asked the Pasha.
“He prays,” replied the slave.
“Has he revealed nothing!”