A DISTANT EPISODE
43
flesh. The Professor knew it was a gun, and he raised his hands,
shouting in Moghrebi: "Take away the dog!" But the gun merely
pushed him forward, and since the dog, once it was back on the
ground, did not leap again, he took a step ahead. The gun kept push–
ing; he kept taking steps. Again he heard voices, but the person
directly behind him said nothing. People seemed to be running about;
it sounded that way, at least. For
his
eyes, he discovered, were still
shut tight against the dog's attack. He opened them. A group of men
was advancing toward him. They were dressed in the black clothes
of the Chaamba. "The Chaamba is a cloud across the face of the
sun." "When the Chaamba appears the righteous man turns away."
In how many shops and market places he had heard these maxims
uttered banteringly among friends. Never to a Chaamba, to be sure,
for these men do not frequent towns. They send a representative in
disguise, to arrange with shady elements there for the disposal of
captured goods. "An opportunity," he thought quickly, "of testing
the .accuracy of such statements." He did not doubt for a moment
that the adventure would prove to be a kind of warning against
such foolishness on his part-a warning which in retrospect would
be half sinister, half farcical.
Two snarling dogs came running from behind the oncoming
men and threw themselves at his legs. He was scandalized to note
that no one paid any attention to this breach of etiquette. The gun
pushed him harder as he tried to sidestep the animals' noisy assault.
Again he cried: "The dogs! Take them away!" The gun shoved
him
forward with great force and he fell, almost at the feet of the
crowd of men facing him. The dogs were wrenching at his hands and
arms. A boot kicked them .aside, yelping, and then with increased vigor
it kicked the Professor in the hip. Then came a chorus of kicks from
different sides, and he was rolled violently about on the earth for a
while. During this time he was conscious of hands reaching into his
pockets and removing everything from them. He tried to say: "You
have all my money; stop kicking me!" But
his
bruised facial muscles
would not work; he felt himself pouting, and that was all. Someone
dealt him a terrific blow on the head, and he thought: "Now at least
I shall lose consciousness, thank Heaven." Still he went on being
aware of the guttural voices he could not understand, and of being
bound tightly about the ankles and chest. Then there was black
silence that opened like a wound from time to time, to let in the soft,
deep notes of the flute playing the same succession of notes again
