Suliman ben Saoud--Jimgrim--was on his feet before the tumult died away, and again they grew perfectly still to listen to him.

If an Arab loves anything under heaven more than his own style of fighting, it is the action and reaction of debate.

I could not understand a word of the mid-Arabian dialect, but Abdul Ali's retorts were plain enough; and from the way that Grim pointed at me and Mahommed ben Hamza it was fairly easy to follow what was happening.
He denounced me as possibly dangerous, and wondered why they permitted me to have an interpreter, who could whisper to me everything that was being said.
"Put out the interpreter!" sneered Abdul Ali, and there was a chorus of approval.

Mahommed ben Hamza got up and hurried for the door while the hurrying was good and painless to himself, though it was hardly that to other people; forcing his way between the close-packed notables he kicked more than one of them pretty badly and grinned when they cursed him.

I saw Abdul Ali of Damascus whisper to one of his rose-coloured parasites, who got up at once and made his way toward the door, too.
"The fellow is from Hebron," Abdul Ali sneered in a voice loud enough for all to hear.