154
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
against the face. It was Moustafa to the rescue! The Follower
of Truth hit the dust. As he came up, knife brandished in
mid-air, Moustafa whipped out his revolver and pointed it
straight at the heart of the enraged fellah. In low, guttural
words, hardly audible beyond our intimate circle, I heard
Moustafa growl at my would-be assassin the equivalent of:
"One more step, and you're a dead son of Allah!"
"Go back into the room, Artour," Moustafa commanded.
I waited for him at the entrance to the grocer's home.
"Now Followers of Truth will surely try to kill you,
Moustafa," I said.
"Not me alone, but you, too, and all the Green Shirts," he
answered calmly. "We will have to be ready for them. Come."
I touched him on the arm. "Moustafa, you saved my life.
What I have is yours. Wish it, and you shall have it." I
meant every word. At the same time, I was following Arab
tradition.
Moustafa hesitated. "I want your friendship, Artour."
"You shall have my loyalty as long as I live."
We hurried to our suffocating flea-hold and alerted the
boys. They made sure revolvers were loaded, daggers ready,
and used what little furniture there was to barricade the door.
This immediately cut off our only escape because our single
barred window looked into a blind alley.
"I am sorry to have