As with bated breath we listened, Mohammed, upon whom Tiamo had bestowed the sobriquet of “The Father of the Blue Hand,” spoke in Arabic, denying in clear, indignant tones that any stranger had found succour beneath his roof, and expressing his readiness to assist his Majesty the Sultan in arresting the rascally Dervish spy.
“Proceed no further,” he cried, evidently barring their way resolutely. “Lend me thine ears. Though a worker at the dye-pots I have, by diligence and integrity, amassed riches, and am honoured among the men of Sokoto. Desecrate not the quarters of my wives by intruding thy presence upon them. If thou thinkest that I lie when I tell thee that no stranger hath eaten salt with me, ask of the Governor, of the Cadi, of the Hadj Al-Wali, chief imam, whether untruths fall from my lips. By my beard! thou art mistaken. Even though thou art fighting-men of the Sultan ’Othman—whom may Allah enrich and guide to just actions!—his Majesty would never suffer thee to penetrate into his servant’s harem.”
“He lieth! He lieth!” they all cried, loudly. “The spy came hither, accompanied by a slave of small stature. Own it, or thy lying tongue shall be cut out.”
And one of the men added, “His Majesty hath given us orders to bring unto him the head of the Dervish from Omdurman—whom may Allah cast into the pit Al-Hawiyat!—but thine own hoary head will do as well,” whereat the others, with one accord, jeered at our protector.
The declaration of my pursuers caused my heart to sink. To be decapitated as a spy was as deplorable an end as to starve to death in the desert. But there was no escape; I resigned myself to the will of Allah.
The altercation increased, Mohammed being assailed with a thousand maledictions, while my ugly companion and myself held our peace in fear and trembling. Although the soldiers alternately threatened and cajoled for a considerable time none entered the apartment wherein we stood, yet our discovery seemed imminent, and looking around for means of escape we could detect none.
Suddenly, however, there was a shuffling of feet upon the flags, and a voice, loud in authority, cried,—
“Back, O men-at-arms! What meanest this? Let not thy feet desecrate the mats of Mohammed el-Arewa’s harem, for of a verity he is honest and loyal, a trusty servant of our Imperial Master. By my beard! thy Korân giveth thee no right to intrude upon woman’s domestic privacy. Back, I command thee. Back!”
“Who art thou, son of sebel, who vouchest for this dyer’s loyalty, and darest to give orders unto the emissaries of his Majesty?” asked one of the armed men, evidently their leader.
“My name,” cried the new-comer, “my name is Shukri Aga. I am Governor of Sokoto.”