I stood
on the shore making signs for a canoe. My desires were disregarded, as
long as decency admitted. At last, about 1 P.M., I found myself upon the
quarter-deck.
"Dawwir el farman,"--shift the yard!--I shouted with a voice of thunder.
The answer was a general hubbub. "He surely will not sail in a sea like
this?" asked the trembling Captain of my companions.
"He will!" sententiously quoth the Hammal, with a Burleigh nod.
"It blows wind--" remonstrated the Rais.
"And if it blew fire?" asked the Hammal with the air _goguenard_, meaning
that from the calamity of Frankish obstinacy there was no refuge.
A kind of death-wail arose, during which, to hide untimely laughter, I
retreated to a large drawer, in the stern of the vessel, called a cabin.
There my ears could distinguish the loud entreaties of the crew vainly
urging my attendants to propose a day's delay. Then one of the garrison,
accompanied by the Captain who shook as with fever, resolved to act
forlorn hope, and bring a _feu d'enfer_ of phrases to bear upon the
Frank's hard brain. Scarcely, however, had the head of the sentence been
delivered, before he was playfully upraised by his bushy hair and a handle
somewhat more substantial, carried out of the cabin, and thrown, like a
bag of biscuit, on the deck.
