“I can prove that I have spoken the truth,” he said. “But if I am indeed the son of a scorpion, as thou sayest, let my brothers speak for me. Let my brothers declare to all the Sahara that the truth is in my mouth. Sadok, remove thy turban!” The plunger of the wells, with a frantic gesture, lifted his turban and discovered the three scorpions writhing upon his shaven head. Another, and longer, murmur went up from the crowd. But some shrank back and trembled, for the desert Arabs are much afraid of scorpions, which cause many deaths in the Sahara. “What is this?” cried Halima. “How can the scorpions speak for thee?” “They shall speak well,” said Ben-Abid. “Their voices cannot lie. Sleep to-night in thy room with these my brothers. Irena and Boria, the Golden Date and the Lotus Flower, shall watch beside thee. Guard in thy hand, or in thy breast, the hedgehog’s foot that thou sayest can preserve from every ill. If, in the evening of to-morrow, thou dancest before the soldiers, I will give thee fifty golden coins. But, if thou dancest not, the city shall know whether Ben-Abid is a truth-teller, and whether the blessings of the great marabout can rest upon such a woman as thou art. If thou refusest thou art afraid, and thy fear proveth that thou hast no faith in the magic treasure that dangles at thy girdle.” There was a moment of deep silence. Then, from the crowd burst forth the cry of many voices: “Put it to the proof! Ben-Abid speaks well. Put it to the proof, and may Allah judge between them.” Beneath the caked pigments on her face Halima had gone pale. “I will not,” she began. But the cries rose up again, and with them the shrill, twittering laughter of her envious rivals. “She has no faith in the marabout!” squawked one, who had a nose like an eagle’s beak. “She is a liar!” piped another, shaking out her silken petticoats as a bird shakes out its plumes. And then the twitter of fierce laughter rose, shriek on shriek, and was echoed more deeply by the crowd of watching men. “Give me the scorpions!” cried Halima passionately. “I am not afraid!” Her desert blood was up. Her fatalism—even in the women of the Sahara it lurks—was awake. In that moment she was ready to die, to silence the bitter laughter of her rivals. It sank away as Sadok grasped the scorpions in his filthy claw, and leaped, gibbering in his beard, upon the terrace. “Wait!” cried Halima, as he came upon her, holding forth his handful of writhing poison. Her bosom heaved. Her lustrous eyes, heavy with kohl, shone like those of a beast at bay. Sadok stood still, with his naked arm outstretched.