The executioners, skilled as they were at handling tormented wretches, kept their hold on Maksoud with difficulty.
And then the cool voice of the sultan, as he emerged from the pit: "Well, Ismeddin, couldn't you wait for me? I heard his howling long before I reached the surface."
"Mercy, O Magnificent! Not into that pit of Iblis!"
"The penalty of poor marksmanship, Maksoud," declared the sultan. "Had you practised in private a few more days, I would not be here deciding your fate."
He smiled and stroked his beard.
"And so you fancied being sultan, did you?" resumed Schamas ad Din. "Those wild fancies are deplorable. Yussuf, here, has devised an entertainment worthy of your bungling; but he shall save it for another."
The chief of the black slaves looked up from his implements, and grinned.
"That pit, master ... spare me that!"
"Well, and so be it, Maksoud ... ungrateful son of my brother. But listen: I have devised a doom which will make that pit seem a childish game, and the companions of the pit pleasant playmates. For those whom these ruins have done to death and torment and madness have lived but a month or two of frenzy. But what I have devised——"
He paused, ignoring the prisoner and his pleas. The sultan's smile faded, and his features became drawn and thoughtful. He leaned against the balustrade, and stared at those eleven all too life-like figures squatting on their pedestals of chiseled stone.