“I haven’t roared so through all eternity, upon my honour! Here, I say, my little man, do you know you have just done a master-stroke?” This familiar tone displeased Roland. “I have just met Mahomet,” continued Eblis, “and you have broken five of his front teeth. I have seen a good many prophets in my time, but I vow, on the faith of the accursed, I never saw one in such a rage. I have, in honour of the blow, given three days’ holiday in the infernal regions. There will be concerts, balls, hunts, and theatres. I have had written, by one of our best authors, a little comedy in the style of Apollodorus, in the last scene of which Mahomet receives a hundred strokes of the bastinado. I have given orders to an army of cooks; you can hear even here a rattle of stew-pans altogether refreshing. I will undertake to let you see we are not so backward in this respect as people pretend. You will meet with many old friends among the guests; we have quite a crowd of visitors just now. My wife, who is a lively one, will be delighted to make your acquaintance. Come, let me present you to her as the best of my friends.” “Babbler!” exclaimed Roland, but little flattered at these marks of friendship. “What right have you to address me in this style?” Eblis, who was not accustomed to be treated so cavalierly, was dumb with surprise for a moment. “By my father’s horns!” said he, at last, “I must have misunderstood you. Give me your hand, Roland, to disabuse me of the error.” He stretched out his tail to the knight, who, however, only drew back a few steps. “What, puny wretch!” shrieked Eblis, turning as white with rage as it was possible for one so black to do. “I shall send you back to earth. Do you think I am of the same stuff as Mahomet?” “But here Roland flung his second gauntlet in the demon’s face. “That makes the pair!” said the nephew of Charlemagne, placing himself in an attitude of defence. “Zacoum Zimzim Galarabak!” shouted Eblis, mad with fury. (You must know that is the most terrible oath that can be uttered in the Saracen tongue.) The earth shook and gaped at Roland’s feet. He felt himself launched into space. His armour suddenly became icy cold. “If I get back without an attack of rheumatism I shall be lucky,” said the knight. He heard around him the flapping of wings; it was a troop of afreets and djins. “Reflect, Roland. There is yet time. Mahomet is prepared to forgive you.” All the answer Roland vouchsafed was the intoning of the canticle-- “Sub tuum Fræsidium confugimus.” “In a few moments your body will be dashed to pieces on earth. Remember the wondrous things the Prophet offered to share with you.” “_Sancta Dei genitrix; nostras deprecationes ne despicias_,” continued Roland. And now it seemed to him that, instead of falling at hazard, he was being gently carried. The chorus of afreets and djins was left far behind, but he still heard the sound of pinions. [Illustration: 163]