“Thou art young and of good stature. It surpriseth me that thou dost not return to thine own people and take a wife from among them.”
“Why should I marry?” I asked, laughing. “While I am alone, I wander at my own inclination; if I married, my actions would be ruled by another.”
“Because ere the sun had risen this morning a camel had placed its hoof upon thy spittle,” he answered, looking at me with his keen serious eyes that age had not dimmed. “It is an omen. ’Ty-ib bi’chire Allah yosallimak!”
“An omen! Of what?” I asked.
“Of impending evil.”
“But we English believe not in superstition; neither have we witches nor sorcerers,” I replied, smiling.
“Infidels have no need of them,” he retorted, angrily. “Only True Believers will behold the great lote tree, or quench their thirst at Salsabil, Allah be thanked!”
“But this strange omen—what particular misfortune is it supposed to presage?” I inquired eagerly, astonished at the vehemence of his denunciation.
“Hearken, and take heed,” he said, earnestly. “Thou art young, and as yet no woman hath captivated thee. Do I give utterance to the truth?”
“Yes,” I answered. “As yet I have never been enmeshed.”