“Return to your homes,” D’Arlan orders the waiting Arabs, “and the one who so much as lifts a hand will be shot like I shot this Dulac!”
He hastens himself to the cross while the rest of his men keep an eye on the Arabs.
“He is still alive,” says D’Arlan, wheezing underneath the cross. Old El Abbas’ head slowly swivels from one side to the other. It seems his muscles are tearing out of his skinny arms. They have secured his arms with ox rope to the crossbeam of the cross and his ankles to the vertical pole.
His wife and daughters sit, wail, and cry underneath the cross.
Teuns and Fritz start cutting the ropes with their knives without waiting on orders. The other men catch the old body as it falls and carefully lay him on the sand. D’Arlan crouches beside him, throw off his rucksack, a
