"Ye hear
that, my children. The free people, the Bada-Mawidi, of whose loins
sprang Abraham the prophet, are the servants of some foreign dog in the
north. If ye were like your fathers, ye would have long ago ere this
wiped out the taunt in blood."
The man sat perfectly composed, save that his right hand had grasped a
revolver. He was playing a bold game, but he had played it before. And
he knew the man he had to deal with.
"I say again, you are my master's servants by your own confession. I
did not say his slaves. You are a free people, but you will serve a
greater in this affair. As for this dog who blasphemes, when we have
settled more important matters we will attend to him."
The mullah was scarcely a popular member of his tribe, for no one
stirred at the call. The stranger sat watching him with very bright,
eager eyes. Suddenly the priest ceased his genuflexions, there was a
gleam of steel among his rags, then something bright flashed in the air.
It fell short, because at the very moment of throwing, a revolver had
cracked out in the silence, and a bullet had broken two of his fingers.
The man flung himself writhing on the ground, howling forth
imprecations.
The stranger looked half apologetically at the chief, whose glum
demeanour had never relaxed. "Sorry," he said; "it had to be done in
self-defence. But I ask your pardon for it.
Pages:
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242