The devil-worshipers bolted, Zantut leading.
The Shareef opened fire with his pistol.
Ismeddin tossed aside the dead signal rocket and retrieved his blade.
"Allah Akbar!" roared the Shareef as he dropped his emptied pistol, drew his sword, and carved his way into the fugitives, cutting them down as they fought their way up the stairs.
Above the confusion and uproar of the slaughter, Ismeddin heard the clank of arms and the clatter of hoofs in the courtyard, far above them.
"If that's the guard," observed Ismeddin, as he paused to wipe on his djellab the blood-drenched grip of his scimitar, "all is well. But if it's reinforcements for these sons of flat-nosed mothers, they'll regain their wits.... Drive hard, uncle!"
And the two graybeards resumed the pursuit, slashing and hacking as they took the steps three at a leap.
"Bismillahi!" exclaimed the Shareef, as he paused for breath. And then, listening to the increasing uproar from the courtyard: "Mamoun and the guard are at it!"
"Wallah! But he made good time," agreed Ismeddin. "Do you blame me for stealing a few horses like those, Cousin of the Prophet?"
"Not after a night like this," panted the Shareef.