"Peace upon you, my lord," grinned the beggar. "I am signaling a detachment of the guard to follow us as fast as their horses can travel."
"You, signal the guard? Now, by Allah, but this is too much! Who are you?" demanded the Shareef.
The beggar readjusted his turban; reached with his right hand into his djellab and over his left shoulder, dragging forth a large leather pouch; jerked the patch from his right eye; stretched himself, clutching skyward with his grimy talons; and then stood before the astonished Shareef, straight as a lance, fierce-eyed as a bird of prey.
"I am Ismeddin! Whose head you swore you would have. As it is, I keep my head, and, inshallah, those two asil mares," exulted the darvish.
"By Allah and by Abaddon!" gasped Sayyid Yussuf. "Old thief, you dared venture into Tekrit at the risk of your head?"
"Even so, my lord. For the promise of Suleiman has waited all these centuries for fulfilment. And the infidel Rankin, who was once Abdemon, could not have accomplished his mission single-handed. But now, to horse! Those sons of Iblis the Damned are mounted on your swiftest meharis."
The Shareef snorted.
"Follow me!"
Their mounts stretched out in an extended gallop.
"Wallah!" exulted Ismeddin, as he drew up beside the Shareef's mare. "She flies! And to think that I overlooked her when I raided your camp at Deir el Zor ... had your men but snored a moment longer ... but give me my sword, saidi ... we have hot work ahead of us...."