Odors were present, and vermin also; but by no means as plentiful or as unbearable as, for instance, they had been in the dungeons of the Emir's palace in Boukhara. And the air was almost fresh. In the course of a few years of adventure, one at times sleeps on a worse bed than the stone bench that ran along the wall of the cell.
"And Ismeddin," reflected Rankin, "is doubtless on the job. All the worse for Iblis and his friends!"
The very absence of any sign of Ismeddin seemed to Rankin to be certain proof that the wily old darvish was busily at work against the followers of Iblis, who was worshiped in Kurdistan as Malik Taûs, the Lord Peacock. Rankin had heard tales the length and breadth of Kurdistan, telling of the outrageous feats and resourcefulness of that unusual hermit who divided his time between the walls of his cavern and the palaces of princes: that is, when not engaged in the single-handed looting of caravans.
Then, like any seasoned campaigner, Rankin sought and found the soft spots of the stone bench, and stretched out for as much sleep as the night afforded. But that sleep was to have its interruption.
A pebble clicked against the wall at Rankin's side; and then another.
"Ismeddin, by God!" was Rankin's first thought as he raised himself on his elbow and looked up at the tiny, barred window through which filtered the moon's dazzling whiteness.
Then, lest a repetition of the signal attract the attention of the sentry posted somewhere in the hall leading to the door of the cell, Rankin intoned the sonorous first lines of the Sura of the Brightness, as any piously inclined prisoner might do in resigning himself to captivity:
"By the noonday brightness, and by the night when it darkeneth!
Thy Lord hath not forsaken thee, neither hath he been displeased."
The pebbles ceased.