From afar came the throbbing of drums that muttered of revolt in the mountains.
"Rebels without and assassins within! A luxurious little coffin, this city which the Old Tiger and I built with our swords. Then with this infidel Resident, and Maksoud, who can't wait for me to be deposed——"
The sultan coiled the tube of the nargileh about his wrist and drank deeply of its white smoke. Then he achieved the smile he reserved for occasions demanding the higher justice.
"By Allah and by Abaddon and by the honor of my beard! Resident or no Resident, we will convince this Maksoud of his stupidity! Amru, call me that old bandit of an Ismeddin!"
"At once, saidi?" queried the old wazir, as he bowed.
"No. Tonight. He's doubtless asleep now, after a hard evening's discussion with some poorly guarded caravan."
The drumming in the mountains at last ceased. But late that night, long after the outposts at Djeb el Azhár had been doubled, there came another and a different drumming, this time from the palace itself: very low, giving rather the sense of a massive vibration rather than of sound. And this deep pulsing was picked up and relayed until it crept into those very mountains where the tribesmen sharpened their curved yataghans, stuffed their scarlet saddle-bags with grain, and awaited the signal to descend and plunder, certain that they would not be pursued beyond the Sultan's borders, and safe in the assurance that the Resident was but waiting for a pretext to depose Schamas ad Din.
To one who lived in those mountains, and understood the code, the deep-voiced, far-relayed drum spoke very clearly; so that, late as it was, Ismeddin emerged from his cave, belted on a jeweled simitar that gleamed frostily against his tattered, greasy garments, and picked his way on foot along the hidden trails that led through the camps of the revolting tribesmen and to the plains below.
The darvish had heard the signal, and knew that the son of the Old Tiger was in need.