Through the coolness of the desert's windswept night and through the sultry flame of its day rode Ismeddin and the Shareef, with but an occasional rest to share with their horses a handful of parched corn. But as the sun set on the eve of the 14th of Nisan, Ismeddin reined in the asil mare.
"Slowly, uncle. We must let those sons of confusion get into their underground rendezvous with Satan. They are eight ... eight at least——"
"And doubtless, Hajj Ismeddin," laughed the Shareef, "you are an old man——"
"Praise be to Allah," agreed the darvish, "my days have been many——"
"And pious also," scoffed the Shareef. "But what is your plan, Hajji?"
"The sentry at the entrance must be silenced without disturbance. As for the rest ... six or seven to one is not so bad.... Inshallah! but I have a surprize for them. Hot fires for Satan's wings, saidi!
"To our left front, an hour's easy ride from here, is Biban ul Djinni, in which the home of Malik Taûs is buried," continued Ismeddin as he scanned the horizon.
Dusk came swiftly on the heels of sunset. The Shareef followed the dirty white blotch that was Ismeddin's djellab, and wondered what strange device the darvish had in mind. For while Ismeddin had signaled the captain of the guard, he had not given him a chance, even with the hardest riding, to overtake them. The encounter would surely be against odds.
From afar they heard the sonorous clang of a gong. The lower edge of the first full moon of spring had just cleared the horizon. Filing down Biban ul Djinni was a caravan of camels and horses, bearing at a steady gait toward a cluster of shattered columns whose stumps towered skyward. As the light of the rising moon grew stronger, they could pick out the figure of a warder on guard in the center of a circular courtyard.