him about his brother-rogue. Hey—Shikandar!” She turned to a servant. “Fetch me the governor of the western marches!”
Abderrahman Yahiah Khan came, listened, and took in the situation, including its ramified potentialities, at a glance.
Serenely overlooking the detail that, not long before, in the mausoleum, he had been willing and ready to sacrifice Musa Al-Mutasim's head on the altar of his own safety, he now felt hurt and indignant that the Arab, without consulting him, should have kidnaped Warburton saheb's daughter, with evidently not the slightest intention of letting him share in whatever ransom he might be able to extort.
His words, therefore, throbbed with bitterness as well as unfeigned, simon-pure moral shock.
“The fat—what didst thou say, Aziza Nurmahal—Afghan? Afghan indeed! He is an obese and indecent impostor! He is Musa Al-Mutasim, the renegade Arab who for years has made the western marches unsafe …”
“Which thou knowest well, O grandson of abundant filth!” cut in the old nurse, wagging a grimy, threatening thumb.
“Silence, Not-Wanted!” said the governor.
Then, turning to Hector and the princess, the crowd having dispersed at a gesture of the latter, he told them about the ancient Tartar castle named Jabul-i-Shuhada, “The Place of the Martyrs,” which belonged to the Arab and was his ever-ready place of refuge in case of dire need.
