"Off!" came the hot reply. "Off, or you die this instant!"
Musa lifted his eyes from the floor, and gave the Egyptian glance for glance. "I do well to tremble!" was his answer, the voice higher now, with a ring of harshness. "I do well to tremble! Remember the tourney at Palermo, my lord emir! Was it Iftikhar Eddauleh who crowned his turban with the prize?" And he stood on guard across the door. "Remember a night like this at Monreale."
The face of Iftikhar was black with his fury. For an instant there was a grating in his throat, thickening every word. "Ya! Dogs from Nubia, smite this mutineer down! Hew him down, or I hang you all!"
The Soudanese stared at him, rolling the whites of their great eyes, but not a spiked flail rose, not a foot crossed the threshold.
"Are you, too, rebels?" howled the Egyptian, his breath coming fast.
Musa had turned to the fifty.
"Hear you, Moslems. In an hour like this, with the Sacred City at stake, shall your emir or another dip hands in a private quarrel? What do I, save defend my own house, and my own harem? Have I not wrought on the walls manfully as Iftikhar? Dare any deny it?"
A shout came from the Soudanese:—
"You say well. You have been the sword and shield of Jerusalem, no less than the emir!"
"Hounds of Eblees! Will you not hew him down?" raged Iftikhar.