Rankin could not parry. But stretched out in a full lunge, he passed beneath the shearing steel, and drove home with his point——
The green flame flickered and died.
Rankin, still clutching his blade, lurched forward on his face as the Dark Prince crumpled in a heap on the tiles. But before the blackness descended, Rankin caught a glimpse of the shadowy figure of a bearded king who bowed and extended his arm in salutation. And this time the smiling loveliness of the girl at his side was not obscured by any veil....
A strong hand gripped Rankin's shoulder, pulled him back to his knees, and lifted him to his feet.
"Wallah!" marveled the Shareef. "Kaffir or not, he is the father of all swordsmen! I knew that his head would be clipped off. And then he stretched out and impaled that son of confusion.... Look! That stroke sheared off a bit of his turban. Allah, and again, by Allah!"
"Then give him his prize, saidi," replied Ismeddin. And to Azizah, who sat upright and wondering on the polished black sacrificial stone: "You need no veil, ya bint! After all these dusty centuries, you are his."
Ismeddin turned to the Shareef: "As for me, saidi, I will be content with but one of those asil mares you wagered against my cracked head."
"So be it," laughed the Shareef, as he led the way up the blood-drenched stairs. "Though doubtless you will steal the other in due course!"