The Sheikh-el-beled shook his head. "She is a blasphemer. Her words are
as the words of one who holds the sacred sword and speaks from the high
pulpit," he said sternly; and his dry lean face hungered like a wolf's
for the blood of the woman.

"She has blasphemed," said the Ulema.

Outside the house, quietness had given place to murmuring, murmuring to a
noise, and a noise to a tumult, through which the yelping and howling of
the village dogs streamed.

"She shall be torn to pieces by wild dogs," said the Sheikh-el-beled.

"Let her choose her own death," said Dicky softly; and, lighting a
cigarette, he puffed it indolently into the face of the Arab sitting
beside him. For Dicky had many ways of showing hatred, and his tobacco
was strong. The sea has its victims, so had Dicky's tobacco.

"The way of her death shall be as we choose," said the Sheikh-el-beled,
his face growing blacker, his eyes enlarging in fury.

Dicky yawned slightly, his eyes half closed. He drew in a long breath of
excoriating caporal, held it for a moment, and then softly ejected it in
a cloud which brought water to the eyes of the Sheikh-el-beled. Dicky
was very angry, but he did not look it. His voice was meditative, almost
languid as he said:

"That the woman should die seems just and right--if by your kindness and
the mercy of God ye will let me speak. But this is no court, it is no
law: it is mere justice ye would do."