He called on Sheikh Abdul Ali, "as well known in Damascus as in this place," to address the mejlis.
There was instant silence.

Even the coffee cups ceased rattling.
Abdul Ali got to his feet with the manner of a man long used to swaying assemblies.

He had just the right air of authority; exactly the right suggestion of deference; the quiet smile of the man with secrets up his sleeve; and he paused just long enough before speaking to whet curiosity and fix attention.
He did not speak floridly or fast, and he indulged in none of those flights of oratory that most Arabs love.

There was ample time between his sentences for Mahommed ben Hamza to translate into my wet and itching ear.

But every sentence of his speech had measured weight in it, and every word he used was chosen for its poison or its sting.
He began by reminding them of the war and of Emir Feisul's share in it.