Page:Alien Souls by Achmed Abdullah (1922).djvu/118

The Prussian paled beneath his tan. …

A tight, tense moment of danger. A little moment, the result of a deed—brutal, though insignificant, except in the final analysis of national psychology—that might have spread into gigantic, fuliginous conflagration, that might have sent the whole German-Turkish card house into a pitful, smoldering heap of ruins!

But a Turkish staff officer, fat, pompous, good-natured, his eyes red and swollen with too much hasheesh smoking, played the part of the deus ex machina. He stepped quickly between the Prussian and the Turks and talked to them in a gentle, soothing singsong, winding up with the old slogan, the old fetish, the old lie:

"Patience, brother Moslems! Patience and a stout heart! For Islam is in danger! The Russian is at the door!"

Yet, deep in the heart of Mehmet el-Touati, deep in the hearts of the simple peasant soldiers, doubt grew, and a terrible feeling of insecurity.

It was not alone that the Russian seemed to have many allies—Armenians yesterday, to-day Arabs and Syrians, to-morrow Greeks and Druses and Persians. All that could be explained, was explained, by the green-turbaned priests who accompanied the army. But they had been told that the Emperor of the North who was coming to their rescue was a Moslem, like themselves. Why then did these Prussian officers—for the case of brevet-major Gottlieb Krüger was not an isolated one—kick and curse their brother Moslems, the Turks? Why did they spit on Islam, the ancient Faith, their own Faith?

Mehmet el-Touati shrugged his shoulders resignedly.