"Saadat! Saadat!" said Mahommed softly to the sleeping figure, scarcely
above his breath, and then with his eyes upon the curtained room
opposite, began to whisper words from the Koran:
"In the name of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful--"
CHAPTER XI
AGAINST THE HOUR OF MIDNIGHT
Achmet the Ropemaker was ill at ease. He had been set a task in which he
had failed. The bright Cairene sun starkly glittering on the French
chandeliers and Viennese mirrors, and beating on the brass trays and
braziers by the window, irritated him. He watched the flies on the wall
abstractedly; he listened to the early peripatetic salesmen crying their
wares in the streets leading to the Palace; he stroked his cadaverous
cheek with yellow fingers; he listened anxiously for a footstep.
Presently he straightened himself up, and his fingers ran down the front
of his coat to make sure that it was buttoned from top to bottom. He grew
a little paler. He was less stoical and apathetic than most Egyptians.
Also he was absurdly vain, and he knew that his vanity would receive
rough usage.
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