“Oh, brother of Joshua and all the fighters of Israel, I have a bobtailed Arab. Permit me to ride with thee.” And Fielding replied: “You will fight the barn-yard fowl for dinner; get back to your stew-pots.” But Seti was not to be fobbed off. “It is written that the Lord, the Great One, is compassionate and merciful. Wilt thou then, O saadat.” Fielding interrupted: “Go, harry the onion-field for dinner. You’re a dog of a slave, and a murderer too: you must pay the price of that grindstone!” But Seti hung by the skin of his teeth to the fringe of Fielding’s good-nature--Fielding’s words only were sour and wrathful. So Seti grinned and said: “For the grindstone, behold it sent Ebn Haroun to the mercy of God. Let him rest, praise be to God!” “You were drummed out of the army. You can’t fight,” said Fielding again; but he was smiling under his long moustache. “Is not a bobtailed nag sufficient shame? Let thy friend ride the bobtailed nag and pay the price of the grindstone and the drum,” said Seti. “Fall in!” rang the colonel’s command, and Fielding, giving Seti a friendly kick in the ribs, galloped away to the troop. Seti turned to the little onion-garden. His eye harried it for a moment, and he grinned. He turned to the doorway where a stew-pot rested, and his mind dwelt cheerfully on the lamb he had looted for Fielding’s dinner. But last of all his eye rested upon his bobtailed Arab, the shameless thing in an Arab country, where every horse rears his tail as a peacock spreads his feathers, as a marching Albanian lifts his foot. The bobtailed Arab’s nose was up, his stump was high. A hundred times he had been in battle; he was welted and scarred like a shoe-maker’s apron. He snorted his cry towards the dust rising like a surf behind the heels of the colonel’s troop. Suddenly Seti answered the cry--he answered the cry and sprang forward. That was how in the midst of a desperate melee twenty miles away on the road to Dongola little Dicky Donovan saw Seti riding into the thick of the fight armed only with a naboot of domwood, his call, “Allala-Akbar!” rising like a hoarse-throated bugle, as it had risen many a time in the old days on the road from Manfaloot. Seti and his bobtailed Arab, two shameless ones, worked their way to the front. Not Seti’s strong right arm alone and his naboot were at work, but the bobtailed Arab, like an iron-handed razor toothed shrew, struck and bit his way, his eyes bloodred like Seti’s. The superstitious Dervishes fell back before this pair of demons; for their madness was like the madness of those who at the Dosah throw themselves beneath the feet of the Sheikh’s horse by the mosque of El Hassan in Cairo. The bobtailed Arab’s lips were drawn back over his assaulting teeth in a horrible grin. Seti grinned too, the grin of fury and of death.