At the great gateway in the Street of the Tent Makers Kaid paused on his
way to the Mosque Mahmoud. The Gate was studded with thousands of nails,
which fastened to its massive timbers relics of the faithful, bits of
silk and cloth, and hair and leather; and here from time immemorial a
holy man had sat and prayed. At the gateway Kaid salaamed humbly, and
spoke to the holy man, who, as he passed, raised his voice shrilly in an
appeal to Allah, commending Kaid to mercy and everlasting favour. On
every side eyes burned with religious zeal, and excited faces were turned
towards the Effendina. At a certain point there were little groups of men
with faces more set than excited. They had a look of suppressed
expectancy. Kald neared them, passed them, and, as he did so, they looked
at each other in consternation. They were Sharif's confederates, fanatics
carefully chosen. The attempt on Kaid's life should have been made
opposite the spot where they stood. They craned their necks in effort to
find the Christian tent-maker, but in vain.
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