Mollified by this assurance, Muhammed said more civilly:
“On the right, a few paces from the foot of the stair, you will find a lantern hanging by the wall. Be careful to strike no match in the armory itself, for there is much gunpowder.”
“Shibli, stay without and watch,” ordered Hassan.
“No, no! Let me enter. For the love of Allah, let me enter with you,” cried the youth, panic-stricken at the prospect of being left alone.
“No, it were a sin for thee.”
“Enter none the less,” whispered Muhammed. “It is a dungeon worth seeing. The walls, the roofs, the pillars, are of the rarest workmanship. I will keep watch instead of thee.”
Shibli required no urging to fulfill his one desire. He slipped in after the Circassians, and the soldier, as if for a precaution, closed the door behind him.
He felt his way down eight stone steps till he found hard-trodden earth beneath his feet.
Presently, amid the darkness ahead of him, there broke a storm of curses. A match was struck, forming a cocoon of light in the distance. Hassan cried in a terrible voice:
“Here is no lantern—no armory. And the door is shut upon us. We are trapped, entombed. May Allah slay me where I stand if I slay not ten men for this trick upon us.”