There was little sleep that night for Hugo de Claremont.
Next morning he was roused from a brief snatch of feverish slumber by a cry, or rather wail, echoing through the whole castle; and springing to the window, he heard a Moor below call out to a comrade—
“Is it so in very deed, friend Ibrahim?” (Abraham).
“It is even so, brother Yoosoof (Joseph). To God we belong, and to Him must we return. Our father, Ali Atar, has gone home to the mercy of God!”
Hugo felt his bold heart stand still. Ali Atar dead! Who could tell what might come of it? But the results were to be such as even he could not have foreseen.
The dead sheikh’s successor was a fiery young Moor, full of confidence in himself and scorn of his Spanish foes. The moment he heard from the untiring Yakoob (who had been out on the watch since dawn) that a Spanish band of raiders had been seen not far away, young Suleimaun, without a thought of the important fortress under his care, sallied out with all his best men to fall on “the infidel dogs.”
Slowly the weary hours of that endless day crept by, and at nightfall rose to the captive’s ear the hoarse challenge of a sentry at the gate to some one outside.
Hugo could not hear the reply, but the soldier rejoined at once—
“It is good; enter, friend.”
The heavy gate swung slowly open, and the torch lighted by the other sentry showed Hugo two men in Moorish dress riding into the courtyard, the foremost calling out as he entered—