"That is the truth, indeed!" she cried, bowing her head, whilst behind
her the handsome face of her son was overcast.
"It is," Asad agreed. "At dawn, Marzak, thou settest forth upon the
galeasse of Sakr-el-Bahr to take the seas under his tutelage and to
emulate the skill and valour that have rendered him the stoutest bulwark
of Islam, the very javelin of Allah."
But Marzak felt that in this matter his mother was to be supported,
whilst his detestation of this adventurer who threatened to usurp the
place that should rightly be his own spurred him to mad lengths of
daring.
"When I take the seas with that dog-descended Nasrani," he answered
hoarsely, "he shall be where rightly he belongs--at the rowers' bench."
"How?" It was a bellow of rage. Upon the word Asad swung to confront
his son, and his face, suddenly inflamed, was so cruel and evil in its
expression that it terrified that intriguing pair. "By the beard of the
Prophet! what words are these to me?" He advanced upon Marzak until
Fenzileh in sudden terror stepped between and faced him, like a lioness
springing to defend her cub. But the Basha, enraged now by this want of
submission in his son, enraged both against that son and the mother who
he knew had prompted him, caught her in his sinewy old hands, and flung
her furiously aside, so that she stumbled and fell in a panting heap
amid the cushions of her divan.
"The curse of Allah upon thee!" he screamed, and Marzak recoiled before
him.
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