"I have done so," said Ali; but he lied, for he had only slipped it into his girdle.
"Into the sheath, I say," cried the voice.
It was with a tremor that Ali felt that this being could distinguish his slightest movement in the dark.
"And now stretch forth thy hand!" cried the voice. It was now quite close to him.
Ali stretched forth his hand, and the same instant he felt a vigorous, manly hand seize his own in a grasp of steel; so strong, so cruel was the pressure that the blood started from the tips of his fingers.
At last the invisible being let go, and said in a whisper as it did so:
"Not a muscle of thy face moved under the pressure of my hand; only Tepelenti could so have endured."
"And there is but one man living who could press my hand like that," replied Ali. "His name was Behram, the son of Halil Patrona,[3] who, forty years ago, was my companion in warfare, and has since disappeared. Who art thou?"
[3] The extraordinary adventures of this Mussulman reformer are recorded in another of Jókai's Turkish stories, A feher rózsa (The White Rose).
"Aleikum unallah!"[4] said the voice, instead of replying.