"_It is hot; it is hot._"
"Great heavens!" roared Leo, "remember the writing, '_The people who
place pots upon the heads of strangers._'"
As he said the words, before we could stir, or even take the matter in,
two great ruffians jumped up, and, seizing the long pincers, thrust them
into the heart of the fire, and the woman who had been caressing Mahomed
suddenly produced a fibre noose from under her girdle or moocha, and,
slipping it over his shoulders, ran it tight, while the men next to him
seized him by the legs. The two men with the pincers gave a heave, and,
scattering the fire this way and that upon the rocky floor, lifted
from it a large earthenware pot, heated to a white heat. In an instant,
almost with a single movement, they had reached the spot where Mahomed
was struggling. He fought like a fiend, shrieking in the abandonment of
his despair, and notwithstanding the noose round him, and the efforts
of the men who held his legs, the advancing wretches were for the moment
unable to accomplish their purpose, which, horrible and incredible as it
seems, was _to put the red-hot pot upon his head_.
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