"But," protested the redbeard, "didn't he prove himself? He is the stout swordsman of the tradition, Abdemon whose skill was the delight of Suleiman, ages ago, and whose sword must give the word of Suleiman its only chance of fulfilment. And he has the seal——"
"Mummeries to fool true believers!" growled the Shareef. "Tonight is but the 11th of Nisan. I will look into this fellow's story, and on the 12th I will either let him carry out his plan, or else——"
The old man nodded significantly at the stalwart African at his left, who was toying with the hilt of a ponderous two-handed sword.
The Shareef clapped his hands. "Show this unbeliever every consideration," he directed, as two slaves approached at his signal. "But on your lives, keep him locked up."
"The swords," thought Rankin, as his escort led him to a cell, "may quench their thirst unless Ismeddin is closer than he seems."
Just before he passed out of ear-shot, he caught the faint tinkle of anklets, but he dared not turn back for even a glance at Azizah, who once had almost been his.
Zantut, servant of Iblis and high priest of the devil-worshipers who had come down from the mountains of Kurdistan, sat in an upper room of the caravanserai just across the street from that selected by Rankin the day before. Two lamps flared ruddily at each side of the Master, casting a flickering light on the parchment scroll he studied. Zantut muttered to himself as he spelled out, line by line, the fine, intricate characters of the manuscript.
At times he would raise his eyes from his work, glance sharply to either side, and at the door of the room, which he was facing. At last he addressed the adept who squatted, cross-legged, in a shadowy corner where he fed grains of sandalwood to a censer that fumed before the silver image of a peacock.
"Humayd, what time is it?"