I took a silver five-piastre piece from the purse in the fold of my waist- cloth, and spun it in the air. It fell on the mat tails uppermost. The long chance had it.
“Will you sit here,” I said to Narayan Singh, “and keep the old bird company, while I take a turn outside.”
Ibrahim ben Ah did not understand a word of that, but he dropped his jaw at hearing me speak English. But surprise gave place to baffled anger as the Sikh answered me in Arabic.
“Surely. I will keep his honor company. Moreover, I speak for his honor Ibrahim, who will sit quietly, as becomes a courteous host, to wait for your return—seeing he is averse to having three holes shot through him with this revolver!” he added meaningly.
Ibrahim ben Ah said never a word. I don’t see what there was he could have said. Barring unforeseen contingencies, we had him corralled for the moment. I got up and left the tent with the notion first of all of finding out just how far Ibrahim’s intention of betraying Ali Higg had taken root among the men.
Seeing one come out leisurely where two had entered the men who happened to be watching drew no conclusions that troubled them. They lay under their improvised shelters, eyeing me with lazy interest, more curious than suspicious. There wasn’t any of that sullen look about them that most Easterns, and all African peoples, wear when they think of betraying their salt. It was a long shot—the longest I ever risked— but I made up my mind to behave as if I knew they were loyal to the last man to the Lion their master.
Don’t forget: I was dressed and shaven for the part of a darwaish —the politico-religious fanatic, who is privileged more or less to air his opinions on any subject, and whose person is theoretically sacred from assault. No theories are fool-proof, and no darwaish should strain his immunity too far, but he had privileges that are more likely to be respected by the ignorant than by their leaders. There was nothing outrageous, or even surprising, in my assumption of an air of superior wisdom and arrogance. Besides, coming straight out of Ibrahim’s tent, it was presumable that I had his authority for whatever I might say or do. They would reason that he would have ordered me to be beaten or murdered otherwise.
There was a big pile of flour-bags in the middle of the bivouac that made a first-class pulpit. I mounted it, with as much of an air of frenzy as a man of my temperament can assume without looking foolish, and stood glaring about me until curiosity brought most of them to their feet.
“Allaho Akbar!” I roared then at the top of my lungs; and that being a subject on which all Moslems are unanimous, they shouted back at me that God was very great indeed. The phrase being their favorite war-cry as well as a statement of doctrine, they began to gather around me. I had my rifle in my right hand, and shook it violently by way of further stimulating curiosity, and in less than two minutes pretty nearly every member of the force was elbowing for standing room. You couldn’t have gathered a crowd more easily in New York City.
When you’re broke it’s no use figuring on the pile you should have; then’s the time to use nickels for all they’re worth. And in a desperate situation it isn’t any good worrying about what you don’t know; the thing is to act on what you do know. Then, if circumstances get the upper hand in spite of energy and courage, nobody can blame you. At least, they’ll blame you, but they haven’t any right to, which is different.
I knew one or two things for a fact. One was that Grim has genius, that he stands by his friends, and that he was keener than anybody on finding a solution of the general mess. Another certainty was that Ali Baba had gone to tell him the facts of the situation. It wasn’t going to help me or anybody else to take into the reckoning just then the possibility of Ali Baba failing to find Grim. That was up to providence and Ali Baba.
A third indisputable fact was that Grim had stated his intention of putting Ayisha in command of these hundred and forty men. That made three things that I knew, which the men in front of me did not. It didn’t look easy to build a compelling argument out of them, but I could try. And a fourth fact—that they imagined Grim was Ali Higg, and Ali Higg was Grim, but that I knew the truth of the matter—provided an element of confusion, which any professional spell-binder could easily turn to advantage. Not being a trained orator gave me no right to lie down on the job, and I waded in.
“Allaho Akbar!” I roared again. (I can bellow like a mad bull on suitable occasion.)
“Allaho Akbar!” they answered. We were getting on finely. A common platform was established. It was as if a soap-box orator in Union Square had started his speech by asserting that the Stars and Stripes is a first-class flag; whoever didn’t think so in the audience would have to pretend to agree for his hat’s sake. There was no fear of opposition now for a minute or two.
“Ye followers of the Lion of Petra,” I thundered out, “Heroes of the desert—faithful followers of the true Prophet, on whom be peace —I bring word to you from Ali Higg, your leader.”
“Akbar!” they began to shout. So I had guessed right. It was only their commander who was disaffected.
I held up the rifle again for silence, and kept them waiting, having often noticed that the pauses are the best part of a speech.
“Ali Higg the terrible, the Lord of the limits of the Desert and the Waters, had declared against Saoud in the name of Allah. Saoud, who dares to call himself Avenger, shall lie low!”
“Akbar! Akbar Ali Higg!” they shouted; for shouting cost nothing in any language, and commits nobody as long as reporters are not present.
“This fellow who calls himself Avenger has eight hundred men,” I went on. “But what are numbers? Had the Prophet numbers when he marched against his enemies? Allah makes all things easy!”
“Allaho Akbar!” they agreed.
“This Avenger fellow is a jackal, but he of Petra is a Lion. And like a lion he has taken to the desert, where cunning and craft win the day against numbers, even as the wind can blow the sand.”
I was far from being certain of that simile; but my audience were not pedagogues. They were men who wanted to listen to optimism, and didn’t care whether sand or wind resembled a lion’s cunning, or otherwise.
“And does a lion hunt in company?” I demanded, glaring about me as if I had propounded a problem such as only a sage could answer. “Nay! He hunts alone! He stalks. He lies in wait. He strikes at the unexpected moment. And who can stand against him? He is terrible in his wrath, and his enemies are confused, not knowing the path he took nor the direction of his coming. Woe, then, to the lion’s enemies!”
That part of the speech had such a good effect on them that I paused again to let the emotion work; and glaring this and that way with a rolling eye, as I have seen the professionals behave, I got a chance to observe Ibrahim ben Ah’s tent. The old man was still sitting in there, cursing steadily, I should say, by the way his beard moved; and Narayan Sing was so well placed that you couldn’t possibly tell from outside the tent that he held a cocked revolver in his hand. The two seemed to be deep in conversation.
“But how about the Lion’s friends?” I roared, as soon as there was perfect silence. “Does he desert them? Never! Does he leave them to their own resources? No! Does he leave them at the mercy of an old man, whose days all numbered, whose marrowless bones might quake at the thought of facing the Avenger? Do ye think that the Lion would do such a thing?”
I paused once more, and as they did not know what was coming they held their breath.
“What think ye of the Lion’s wife?”
“Jael! Jael!” they began to shout, and I didn’t contradict them. I didn’t dare mention Ayisha yet, because the news of her divorce might possibly have reached them. The main point was to establish the thought in their minds that Ali Higg was going to send a woman deputy to override, and perhaps replace