Lifting his voice above the general clamor, the conqueror summoned Oman to him. The captive obeyed, moving slowly forward till he could have touched the hand of his captor, who still stood gazing at him. Again their eyes met; and this time, before the penetrating glance of the hermit, the eyes of the warrior fell. After an instant, however, they were lifted again, and Osman, speaking in perfect Hindustanee, said:
“Thou art he whom they called, this afternoon, the white Demon?”
“I do not know what men called me.”
“Thou wouldst have saved the young Rajah from my scimitar?”
“Assuredly,” answered Oman, scowling; and the conqueror laughed.
In a moment, however, he was serious again, and, dropping all preliminaries, demanded: “That stone—the ruby that you wear upon your neck—what is it called? Where found you it?”
A sudden flash of understanding, of more than understanding, rushed over Oman. Out of the long, long ago came remembrance of this same man that now stood before him; and he asked, suddenly, the involuntary question:
“Art thou Osman ibn-Omar el-Asra?”
“Yes. By the Prophet, how knewest thou I was ibn-Omar?”
Oman did not answer. He took from his throat the chain on which hung the great ruby; and, with an indescribable gesture, he went forward and slipped it over the head of the Mohammedan. “It is the Asra ruby,” said he. “It has found its race again. My trust is finished.”