"The palace is marble," declared Godfrey, leaning over the parapet, despite the shafts.
"Enough also of wood and stucco to glow like Gehenna!" replied Musa, grimly. "Such is the manner of our palaces."
The smoke blew thicker, the arrows pelted so rapidly that even Godfrey was fain to drop behind the casement. There was another rush of feet in the gallery. Richard bounded to the door.
"Praised be St. Michael!" shouted he; "there is still food for Trenchefer." But the Ismaelians halted at a safe distance; did not advance; only stood with swinging cimeters, as if awaiting attack.
"Hear their feet below!" growled Godfrey; "they bring more fuel! Hark the roar! The very palace burns."
Musa thrust his head into the scorching smoke eddy.
"You say well, Cid Godfrey; we are in Allah's hands, and shall see Him face to face full soon!"
A crash below was followed by a second, a third. Up the stairway shot a wavering shaft of flame; the smoke that had been rising to the vaulted dome began to sink and stifle. Richard turned to Morgiana.
"Lady," he said, while he leaned on Trenchefer, "God may reward you for your deed to-night, but not ourselves. Had not His will been otherwise, you would have saved us. You can do nothing more. Fly down the gallery."
As if in echo came Iftikhar's voice:—