"Feet downwards, too afraid to yell!"-- Abdul Ali of Damascus was holding the floor again when we returned.

He had abandoned the cold air of mysterious authority and secrets in reserve.

His claim to backstairs influence having been challenged, he had resorted to the emotional appeal that is the simplest means of controlling any crowd of men anywhere.

The demagog who can find a million men all responsive to the same emotion can swing them as easily as a hundred if he knows his business.

Loot was the tune he harped, with the old Ishmael blood-lust by way of obbligato.
He had them by the heart-strings, and there were long-necked bottles of liquor that smelt of aniseed being passed from hand to hand.