The darvish led the way down the broad avenue. The sultan glanced once at the sculptured columns, shuddered, and found a glance sufficient. Then he smiled: for Maksoud would find Atlânaat not a bit more savory.
The avenue ended in a small court bounded by columns whose capitals were on friendly terms with a single sultry-growing star that glared evilly.... At the base of each pillar was an ornately chiseled pedestal. On eleven of these pedestals, forming a crescent, were life-sized images of bearded men, sitting cross-legged. The head of each was bowed as in sleep; and each held in his left hand a curiously carved scepter.
The sultan started at the sound of hoofs clicking on the pavement behind them.
"Maksoud and his escort." And then, as the hoof-beats ceased: "They fancy this place no more than you do, saidi."
The sultan scrutinized the cross-legged, bearded images.
"Strangely life-like," he observed.
"No," contradicted Ismeddin. "Not strangely life-like. Rather it would be strange were they otherwise. Nevertheless, seek the girl and her sleeping master. She may tell you how to outwit the Resident and dispose very neatly of Maksoud. But"—Ismeddin glanced again at the disconcerting images—"she may offer a most unusual solution."
In the center of the court was a circular balustrade that guarded the brink of a pit along whose walls spiraled a gently sloping runway down which a man on horse or foot might easily make his way to the abysmal depths that mocked the single star overhead.
"Advance boldly," counseled the darvish, "down the center, not rashly close to the edge, nor timidly close to the wall. And in the meanwhile I will be here with Maksoud, awaiting your return."
"My return? You are optimistic."