Alai Bala Sleeps
The girl seemed not to comprehend. She shook her head slightly.
"Speak, my pretty parrakeet," purred Abbas. "Come, my gentle dove, my jewel of jewels, my priceless pearl of beauty! You have heard, O offal of the bazaars, harlot—scum of paradise, my saintly houri"
"The Hills," murmured Alai Bala wearily. "This is an evil place: let us ride to the Hills"
She sank at once into her interrupted slumber, her kohl-stained face pallid, and her breathing laboring from tormented lungs. Monsey nodded agreeably.
"My luck holds."
Abbas glanced up shrewdly. "You would have let her decide, effendi?"
Monsey turned away. "Certainly—as I said."
He disappeared down the stairs. His footsteps died away and the room was silent except for the gurgle of Abbas' pipe. Presently the shrill cry of the sick child sounded from below. It ceased, and Alai Bala twisted uneasily in her sleep.
Abbas looked from her to his pipe. The murmur of the chanting boatmen came to his ears, mingled with another chant.
"Allah il akbar," came the murmur. "Allah, the Great. There is no god but Allah"
It was the hour of sunset prayer.
