“By the Korân, there are men all about us, moving secretly.”
Hassan Agha tugged at his white mustache.
“Let us be walking,” he commanded. “Show no concern, my children, nor fight, for the foe is numerous. With thy leave, O beloved, we will return to the city together.”
Shems-ud-dìn, undismayed, took the hand held out to him, and walked with his old friend slowly along the path which wound upward among the rocks.
“Stand, all of you.”
From beside an ancient tomb two soldiers stood forth suddenly, barring the way. At that Hassan railed:
“What ails you, O my dears? Has the sun addled your wits that you venture to command this holy man, a great one, no less than brother to the renowned Milhem Pasha, whom Allah preserve.”
Soldiers were now all about them, joking good-naturedly. There had been no resistance, and they were grateful, for it was very hot.
“Allah witness how I grieve for you,” laughed one in whom Hassan recognized the Bimbashi Muhammed. “But to sift the innocent from the guilty is not our business. That belongs to the judge; let him see to it. By Allah, thou art out of luck, old fox. This is no jesting matter like ours of the other night.”
The man held his tongue, for a superior officer now approached them, scrambling up from below. Hassan scanned the features of the newcomer eagerly, but sighed; it was not Abd-ur-Rahman.