This is a digression at a critical moment, but it is not too long for the occasion, for the occasion itself was very long.  With the exception of the periodical passing of the vase, and the movement necessary to throw fuel on to the fire, nothing happened for the best part of a whole hour.  Nobody spoke a word.  There we all sat in perfect silence, staring at the glare and glow of the large fire, and at the shadows thrown by the flickering earthenware lamps (which, by the way, were not ancient).  On the open space between us and the fire lay a large wooden tray, with four short handles to it, exactly like a butcher’s tray, only not hollowed out.  By the side of the tray was a great pair of long-handled iron pincers, and on the other side of the fire was a similar pair.  Somehow I did not at all like the appearance of this tray and the accompanying pincers.  There I sat and stared at them and at the silent circle of the fierce moody faces of the men, and reflected that it was all very awful, and that we were absolutely in the power of this alarming people, who, to me at any rate, were all the more formidable because their true character was still very much of a mystery to us.  They might be better than I thought them, or they might be worse.  I feared that they were worse, and I was not wrong.  It was a curious sort of a feast, I reflected, in appearance indeed, an entertainment of the Barmecide stamp, for there was absolutely nothing to eat.

At last, just as I was beginning to feel as though I were being mesmerised, a move was made.  Without the slightest warning, a man from the other side of the circle called out in a loud voice—­

“Where is the flesh that we shall eat?”

Thereon everybody in the circle answered in a deep measured tone, and stretching out the right arm towards the fire as he spoke—­

“The flesh will come.”

“Is it a goat?” said the same man.

“It is a goat without horns, and more than a goat, and we shall slay it,” they answered with one voice, and turning half round they one and all grasped the handles of their spears with the right hand, and then simultaneously let them go.

“Is it an ox?” said the man again.

“It is an ox without horns, and more than an ox, and we shall slay it,” was the answer, and again the spears were grasped, and again let go.

Then came a pause, and I noticed, with horror and a rising of the hair, that the woman next to Mahomed began to fondle him, patting his cheeks and calling him by names of endearment while her fierce eyes played up and down his trembling form.  I do not know why the sight frightened me so, but it did frighten us all dreadfully, especially Leo.  The caressing was so snake-like, and so evidently a part of some ghastly formula that had to be gone through.[*] I saw Mahomed turn white under his brown skin, sickly white with fear.

[*] We afterwards learnt that its object was to pretend to the victim that he was the object of love and admiration, and so to sooth his injured feelings, and cause him to expire in a happy and contented frame of mind.—­L.  H. H.

“Is the meat ready to be cooked?” asked the voice, more rapidly.