bites the cartridge first, to spill a little powder and make priming.
Which true believer wishes to defile himself with pig's fat? Why do
they this? Why are the Christian missionaries here? Ask both riddles
with one breath, for both two are one!"

"Slay, then!"

"Up now, and slay!"

There would be an instant, eager restlessness, while Ali Partab would
glance over to where the horses stood, and would wonder why the word
that loosed him was so long in coming. The hadji would calm his
listeners and tell them to get ready, but be still and await the sign.

"There were to be one hundred years, ran the prophecy; but ninety-nine
and a portion have yet run. Wait for the hour!"

Then, for perhaps the hundredth time, Ali Partab would pretend that
movement alone could save one or other of his horses from heat
apoplexy. He would mount, and ride at a walking pace through the
streets that seemed like a night view of a stricken battle-field, turn
down by the palace wall, and then canter to the schoolhouse, where the
hag--wiser than her mistress--would be sleeping in the open.

"Thou! Mother of a murrain! Toothless one! Is there no word yet?"

The hag would leer up through the heavy darkness--make certain that
he had no lance with him with which to prod her in the ribs--scratch
herself a time or two like a stray dog half awakened--and then leer
knowingly.