His name was on it in Arabic: "Sheikh Anazeh ben Mahmoud, from Jimgrim." He seized it, setting the bottle down between his feet, where it was instantly reached for by some one else and handed down the line.

Reading was evidently not Anazeh's favorite amusement, but he knitted his brows over the letter and wrestled with it word by word, while Abdul Ali's fiery declamation made the vaulted roof resound.

I could only make out snatches of the appeal to savagery--a word and a sentence here and there.
"Who are you, princes?
Men with swords, or slaves who must obey ?--Raid over the Jordan twenty thousand strong!--What are Jews?
Shall Jews take the home of your ancestors?
Who says so?
-- Let the Jews be buried in the land they come to steal!--You say the Jews are cleverer than you.

Cut their heads off, then they cannot think!" "When did Jimgrim give you this ?" Anazeh demanded, folding the letter and stowing it in his bosom.
"That is the message that I told you would come later if you waited." "Do you know what is in the message ?" "No." That was perfectly true.

I had talked with Grim, but had not read what he had written.
"He wishes me to go and wait for him in a certain place" "Why not do it ?" "Rubbama." (Perhaps.) "True-believers! Followers of the Prophet! Sons of warrior kings!" thundered Abdul Ali.