saying that he himself was the siper salar, the captain general, and that the interference of the church in matters military was his pet dislike.
“But, Al Nakia,” protested the Sheik-ul-Islam, “be pleased to consider my losses.”
“A new robe of state shall be given thee, also some money, and a rosary …”
“Of emeralds—like the one I lost?” came the quick, greedy query.
“No. God hears prayers even though they be clicked on simple wooden beads.”
“But my loss of dignity, my lord! My loss of prestige!”
Hector smiled sardonically. From the very first, he had felt an antipathy for the suave, hypocritical priest.
“Worldly thoughts for a holy man,” he suggested; and when the other again spoke about his loss of dignity and, with a general appeal to the courtiers who crowded the hall of audience, repeated his demand that an expedition be sent to punish Abderrahman Yahiah Khan, Hector burst forth with a thunderous “Silence! I follow my own counsel, even though the robbers cut off the nose of the Commander of the Faithful himself.”
The Sheik-ul-Islam rose and walked away, angry, mortified, throwing over his shoulder the Parthian shot that Al Nakia was setting up to be a warrior, a fighter, a swashbuckler, a leader of men, but that “the more we approach the enemy, the more the tiger in our heart becomes a lamb!”
