Rrisa withdrew, salaaming. His master turned toward the western
windows. There the white blankness of the map of Arabia seemed mocking
him. The Master's eyes grew hard; he raised his fist against the map,
and smote it hard. Then once more he fell to pacing; and as he walked
that weary space, up and down, he muttered to himself with words we
cannot understand.
After a certain time, Rrisa came silently back, sliding into the soft
dusk of that room almost like a wraith. He bore a silver tray with a
hook-nosed coffee-pot of chased metal. The cover of this coffee-pot
rose into a tall, minaret-like spike. On the tray stood also a small
cup having no handle; a dish of dates; a few wafers made of the
Arabian cereal called _temmin_; and a little bowl of _khat_ leaves.
"_M'alme, al khat aja_" (the khat has come), said Rrisa.
He placed the tray on the table at his master's side, and was about to
withdraw when the other stayed him with raised hand.
"Tell me, Rrisa," he commanded, still speaking in Arabic, "where wert
thou born? Show thou me, on that map."
The Arab hesitated a moment, squinting by the dim light that now had
faded to purple dusk.
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