Of a sudden a tremor ran through the multitude. The uproar dwindled to a murmur, above which terrified cries were heard, growing louder and nearer.
“The soldiers!”—“The soldiers have scattered us!”—“Allah destroy them!”—“They have killed Ahmed, my brother!”—“I am wounded even to death!”
The broken remnant of some other band poured headlong from the arched entry of a by-street and made haste to mingle and lose themselves in the stagnant crowd which choked their way. They came running, beards on shoulders, faces blanched with fright, and slipped in among the throng as a lizard slips under a stone for safety.
The butchers stayed their hands and wiped their knives on the skirts of their clothing. The feeders poured out of doorways to hear the news. Saïd struck a squealing Nazarene on the head with his iron bar and looked out from the lattice of the upper storey where he found himself. He glanced down upon the press of dark fezes and light turbans in fierce sunlight and plum-coloured shadow. The sea of heads rolled purposeless like beads unstrung from a chaplet. All at once a yell of rage uprose.
“The soldiers!—Allah cut their lives!—The soldiers!—let us slay them!—Let us fly!—Let us stone them to death who favour the infidels!” At the street end, where there was a great pool of sunlight, Saïd caught the glint of gun-barrels and recognised the uniform of the irregular troops. He saw a sword flash as an officer of high rank flourished it; and through all the cursing of the mob he heard a word of command, short and gruff like the grunt of a pig. A howl of execration rent the air. The front rank of the troops were taking deliberate aim at the rioters.
Saïd beheld the surging sea of heads with the unconcerned pity of an angel or a sage. Packed close as they were down there, every shot must tell. He gave warm praise to Allah Most High, who had placed His servant in that upper chamber, whence he could observe all that passed without peril.
Then he saw a strange sight. The rabble had shrunk back before the muzzles of the rifles covering them. Across the space of pavement thus deserted rushed the wild figure he had observed before the Consul’s house. The holy one ran up to the officer and confronted him with gestures of command and entreaty.
“Shall Muslim war with Muslim?” A shrill voice rang clear on the hush which ensued. “Will you then separate yourselves from the cause of Allah and His Apostles to side with pagans and idolaters? Will you shoot down the servants of the Highest like dogs? I heard a voice in the night saying, Go to the city, Es-Shâm, and tell the dwellers there: The word of Allah to such as are faithful. Slay me the unbelievers which aspire to sit in high places! Slay the whole race of them, the child with the strong man, the woman giving suck with the aged one whose eyes are dim! Let not a soul of them remain alive, for the welfare of Islâm is in it!—Will you then anger the Praiseworthy? Will you then. …”
“Dìn! Dìn! Dìn Muhammed!”
The words of the saint were drowned in a shout which thrilled Saïd to the marrow and made tears start in his eyes. The officer took a written paper embodying his orders and tore it to little pieces. The soldiers flung down their rifles with a great noise. With frantic exclamations the crowd surged towards them, enveloped them, embraced them and made them one with it. The Colonel waved his sword on high, shouting for Allah and the Prophet. It was who should kiss his hand, his scabbard, his clothing—anything that was his.
“Dìn! Dìn! Dìn Muhammed! …” The mob, thus reinforced, set to work once more. “To the French convent!” someone shouted. “Let the nuns be ravished and then slain!” The cry was taken up on all hands with laughter and coarse jibes. “The nuns! The nuns!” “Aha, the nuns are sweet!” “They have kept their flower for us, the darlings!” “Let us see how the nuns are fashioned!”
There was a breathless rush, of sheep following blindly the track of an unseen leader. Saïd was more than once crushed against a wall of the narrow ways they traversed; but he was stalwart and held his own. Then there was a standstill. Those in front hammered at a strong door, while those behind stood on tiptoe and craned their necks to see what was doing.
All at once there was a backward movement. Another panic got hold of the crowd. A cry, “The soldiers!” was again raised; but was received with jeers by such of the mob as were of that calling. A small troop of armed men rode up to the door of the nunnery. They were seen plainly of all, towering as they did on horseback above the seething mass on foot. Most of them rode their chargers at the foremost, who drew back in alarm; while a few, among whom was the leader, dismounted and entered the convent, the door of which was promptly opened to them.
A mighty roar went up from the multitude.
“It is Abdul Cader!”—“May Allah preserve his Grace!”—“He goes to take vengeance upon his enemies!”—“It was the French who wronged and imprisoned him, though he fought them brave as a lion!”—“He is come to claim the French nuns for his harìm!”—“Allah is just!”—“May all the Franks perish, and their women be dishonoured!”—“Long live the might of Islâm!”—“May Allah preserve Abdul Cader, the glory of the Faith!”
But applause was turned to oaths and howls of rage when the hero and his officers reappeared, escorting with respect a train of black-robed nuns, each with the obnoxious cross shining on her bosom. The horsemen closed around them as a bodyguard; the leaders sprang to their saddles. Then the fury of the crowd broke all bounds. The coolness of the rescuers as they rode away had a point of contempt which stung
