And The
Latter, An Ill-Looking, Squint-Eyed, Low-Browed, Broad-Shouldered
Fellow, Showed Himself Nowise Unwilling To Meet The Demon Half Way.
The
two worthies, after a brief bandying of bad words, seized each other's
throats leisurely, so as to give the spectators time and encouragement
to interfere.
But when friends and acquaintances were hanging on to
both heroes so firmly that they could not move hand or arm, their
wrath, as usual, rose, till it was terrible to see. The little village
resounded with the war, and many a sturdy knave rushed in, sword or
cudgel in hand, so as not to lose the sport. During the heat of the
fray, a pistol which was in Omar Effendi's hand went off-accidentally
of course-and the ball passed so close to the tins containing the black
and muddy Mocha, that it drew the attention of all parties. As if by
magic, the storm was lulled. A friend recognised Sa'ad the Demon, and
swore that he was no black slave, but a soldier at Al-Madinah-"no
waiter, but a Knight Templar." This caused him to be looked upon as
rather a distinguished man, and he proved his right to the honour by
insisting that his late enemy should feed with him, and when the other
decorously hung back, by dragging him to dinner with loud cries.
My alias that day was severely tried. Besides the Persian pilgrims, a
number of nondescripts who came in the same vessel were hanging about
the coffee-house; lying down, smoking, drinking water, bathing and
picking their teeth with their daggers.
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