At once Dimoussi sprang to his feet. He did not mean to be robbed of his great privilege. He shook his head.
“Lar, lar!” he cried. “Bad men in Mulai Idris. They will stone you. You go to Mequinez.”
The man who had already spoken laughed.
“We are not going to Mulai Idris,” he replied. He was a man named Arden who had spent the greater part of many years in Morocco, going up and down that country in the guise of a Moor, and so counterfeiting accent, and tongue, and manners, that he had even prayed in their mosques and escaped detection.
“You are English?” asked Dimoussi.
“Yes. Come on, Challoner!”
And then, to his astonishment, as his horse stepped on, Dimoussi cried out actually in English:
“One, two, three, and away!”
Arden stopped his horse.
“Where did you learn that?” he asked; and he asked in English.