The House of the Falcon
otherwise—looked up coldly. His dark eyes were dangerous. "At least," he smiled, "I know my own birth. I am not a jackal, born in a gully."
Abbas Abad Mustieh'din exhaled the smoke from his lungs and his faded eyes blinked. "Khei'leh khoûb, Effendi, khei'leh, khoûb! he murmured. ("Very well, my good master, very well!")
"Nor," continued Monsey ironically, "am I a monkey, clad in the garments of gentlefolk, my betters."
Willful and domineering, he was irritated at himself, at Edith Rand. The remarks of Abbas had added fuel to the fire. Like many men of narrow mind, the Russian lacked humor. He was not a man to swallow a jest lightly. With his faults, however, he was not lacking in courage. He faced the Alaman, smiling but watchful.
A dull red flooded into the seamed countenance of Abbas. The artificial pride, common to those who mimic the personality of their superiors, had been touched. One powerful hand clasped the turquoise-inlaid hilt of the dagger in his girdle.
Monsey dropped a hand into the pocket of his jacket and waited. The pocket bulged, and the bulge pointed toward Abbas. For a long moment the Alaman eyed his friend, the coat of his friend—under which he knew a serviceable revolver was turned toward him—then his brow cleared and he raised an empty hand, palm up.
"Bismillah! Why should I cut open your throat? I need you. You need me. But keep your tongue in your mouth, or one day it will be slit—thus!"
Monsey had relaxed his vigilance for an instant at the overture. The dagger of Abbas flashed out and passed across his companion's breast. Monsey stared
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