The roof and ramparts appeared deserted. They were in the ruinous state to which the Turks reduce everything by sheer neglect, and in which Arabs, blaming the Turks, seemed quite disposed to leave things. The Ichwan led the way to the southwest corner, peering about him to make sure no guards were in hiding, or asleep behind projecting buttresses. Overhead the kites were wheeling against a pure blue sky. The Dead Sea lay and smiled below us, with the gorgeous, treeless Judean Hills beyond. Through the broken window of the hall came the clamour of arguing men.
"O, Jimgrim!" grinned Mahommed ben Hamza when we reached the corner.
Grim turned and faced us with folded arms, leaning his back against the parapet.
Ben Hamza continued: "You are a very prince of dare-devils! One word from me—one little word, and they would fling you down into the moat for the vultures to feed on!"
"I remember a time," Grim answered, "when a word from me saved you from hanging."
"True, father of good fortune! But a man must laugh. I will hold my tongue in El-Kerak like a tomb that has not been plundered!"
"You'd better! You've work to do. Where are your men?"
"All where I can find them."
"Good. You'll get turned out of the mejlis presently. Look down into the moat now."
We all peered over. The lower ramp of the wall sloped steeply, but all the way up the sharp southwest corner the stones were broken out, and a goat, or a very active man could find foothold.