"And now," resumed Ismeddin, "let us attend to our work downstairs. Much is to be done, and there is little time."
They retraced their steps, picking their way among the devil-worshipers that lay on the slippery stairs.
"Seven ... eight," counted Ismeddin as he led the way, "nine ... son of a disease, how did I miss you?"
The old man's blade drove home.
"Nine ... ten ... eleven," continued the darvish. "And now, when we release Saidi Rankin, we will see some fighting. The Father of Lies must step from his black throne and meet Abdemon, sword to sword. And if Abdemon defeats him, the promise of Suleiman will at last be kept."
"But he is a kaffir!" protested the Shareef. "And my brother's daughter——"
"Be that as it may. If Saidi Rankin wins, it will only be because it so pleases Allah. Would you rather leave her spirit in the hands of Shaitan the Damned? Give me a hand, here," directed Ismeddin, as they halted at the black altar on which the prisoners lay bound.
Together they pushed the massive block a dozen paces from the throne, then cut the cords that bound Rankin, and removed from between his teeth the piece of wood with which he had been gagged.
"Ismeddin!" gasped Rankin as he stretched his numbed limbs. "How much of this did you foresee?"