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“Thou art a blasphemer,” broke in the chief of the Ulema.

She gave no heed, but with her eyes on Dicky continued:

“So I stole forth in the night with an old slave, who was my father’s slave, and together we went to Cairo…. Behold, I have done all that Dervishes do: I have cut myself with knives, I have walked the desert alone, I have lain beneath the feet of the Sheikh’s horse when he makes his ride over the bodies of the faithful, I have done all that a woman may do and all that a man may do, for the love I bore my lord. Now judge me as ye will, for I may do no more.”

When she had finished, Dicky turned to the Sheikhel-beled and said: “She is mad. Behold, Allah hath taken her wits! She is no more than a wild bird in the wilderness.”

It was his one way to save her; for among her people the mad, the blind, and the idiot are reputed highly favoured of God.

The Sheikh-el-beled shook his head. “She is a blasphemer. Her words are as the words of one who holds the sacred sword and speaks from the high pulpit,” he said sternly; and his dry lean face hungered like a wolf’s for the blood of the woman.

“She has blasphemed,” said the Ulema.

Outside the house, quietness had given place to murmuring, murmuring to a noise, and a noise to a tumult, through which the yelping and howling of the village dogs streamed.

“She shall be torn to pieces by wild dogs,” said the Sheikh-el-beled.

“Let her choose her own death,” said Dicky softly; and, lighting a cigarette, he puffed it indolently into the face of the Arab sitting beside him. For Dicky had many ways of showing hatred, and his tobacco was strong. The sea has its victims, so had Dicky’s tobacco.

“The way of her death shall be as we choose,” said the Sheikh-el-beled, his face growing blacker, his eyes enlarging in fury.

Dicky yawned slightly, his eyes half closed. He drew in a long breath of excoriating caporal, held it for a moment, and then softly ejected it in a cloud which brought water to the eyes of the Sheikh-el-beled. Dicky was very angry, but he did not look it. His voice was meditative, almost languid as he said:

“That the woman should die seems just and right–if by your kindness and the mercy of God ye will let me speak. But this is no court, it is no law: it is mere justice ye would do.”

“It is the will of the people,” the chief of the Ulema interjected. “It is the will of Mussulmans, of our religion, of Mahomet,” he said.

“True, O beloved of Heaven, who shall live for ever,” said Dicky, his lips lost in an odorous cloud of ‘ordinaire.’ “But there be evil tongues and evil hearts; and if some son of liars, some brother of foolish tales, should bear false witness upon this thing before our master the Khedive, or his gentle Mouffetish–“

“His gentle Mouffetish” was scarcely the name to apply to Sadik Pasha, the terrible right-hand of the Khedive. But Dicky’s tongue was in his cheek.

“There is the Mudir,” said the Sheikh-el-beled: “he hath said that the woman should die, if she were found.”

“True; but if the Mudir should die, where would be his testimony?” asked Dicky, and his eyes half closed, as though in idle contemplation of a pleasing theme. “Now,” he added, still more negligently, “I shall see our master the Khedive before the moon is full. Were it not well that I should be satisfied for my friends?”

Dicky smiled, and looked into the eyes of the Mussulmans with an incorruptible innocence; he ostentatiously waved the cigarette smoke away with the hand on which was the ring the Khedive had given him.

“Thy tongue is as the light of a star,” said the bright-eyed Sheikh-el-beled; “wisdom dwelleth with thee.” The woman took no notice of what they said. Her face showed no sign of what she thought; her eyes were unwaveringly fixed on the distance.