"Let us halt here, saidi," requested the beggar after half an hour's brisk ride.
They dismounted beside a low, half-crumbled, white-washed cupola that loomed spectrally in the moonlight: the ruined tomb of a forgotten saint. They made their salaam to the unknown occupant of the holy place.
"For a beggar," began the Shareef, "you are armed like a prince. And I wonder whether you are mad as you pretend to be."
"And for a cousin of the Prophet," replied the beggar, "I wonder if you are as wise as you ought to be."
The moon was masked by a thin wisp of cloud. A cool, chilling breeze crept across the desert.
"Kneel here, three paces before me, saidi," murmured the beggar. "Kneel facing me, with this ghost of a wind at your left ... and let this ghost of a moon bear witness to the truth that lies hidden in these sands.... Let it bear witness to my wager: my head against those two asil mares.... With my own sword strike off my head, saidi," crooned the beggar, "if what you see be not the truth as Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate, sees it ... and the truth, my lord, is that Iblis the Damned has beguiled you....
"Look, saidi," chanted the beggar, as he gathered handfuls of sand and let it trickle between his fingers. "Look at this sand which is the dust of unremembered kings and the dust of forgotten slaves ... look at this sand over which kings and slaves have marched, endless procession, ages without end...."
The beggar's gesture of scooping sand lengthened until his hands swept in an arc from the ground to the full extent of his arm. The cool breeze caught the fine dust, blowing it into little clouds that whisked and whirled uncannily.
"And that moon, saidi, that pale moon who hides her face behind a veil, saidi ... let her bear witness, for she has seen all things and knows all things...."
As the beggar chanted, the breeze centered in a vortex between him and the Shareef.