"He can no more than banish me!" sputtered Maksoud. "The Resident would depose him were I not to return. Old ape ... son of many pork-eating fathers ... do you think all this parade of curious torments will kill _me_ of fright? That is an old story. I myself once helped him----" And Maksoud's laugh rang true. "So?" Ismeddin smiled suavely. "Well, and I said that you would meet none of these commonplace things. But supposing ... just supposing, as food for thought, that we were to let you down into that black pit. You have seen those who have played about these ruins----" Ismeddin nodded to the black slaves, who advanced to remove the prisoner from his horse. "Not _that_, _saidi_," implored Maksoud. "That, and more than that. You have seen those who lost their way in these ruins. And you once laughed at what was left of one who finally did find his way out." The executioners, skilled as they were at handling tormented wretches, kept their hold on Maksoud with difficulty. And then the cool voice of the sultan, as he emerged from the pit: "Well, Ismeddin, couldn't you wait for me? I heard his howling long before I reached the surface." "Mercy, O Magnificent! Not into that pit of Iblis!" "The penalty of poor marksmanship, Maksoud," declared the sultan. "Had you practised in private a few more days, I would not be here deciding your fate." He smiled and stroked his beard. "And so you fancied being sultan, did you?" resumed Schamas ad Din. "Those wild fancies are deplorable. Yussuf, here, has devised an entertainment worthy of your bungling; but he shall save it for another." The chief of the black slaves looked up from his implements, and grinned. "That pit, master ... spare me that!" "Well, and so be it, Maksoud ... ungrateful son of my brother. But listen: I have devised a doom which will make that pit seem a childish game, and the companions of the pit pleasant playmates. For those whom these ruins have done to death and torment and madness have lived but a month or two of frenzy. But what I have devised----" He paused, ignoring the prisoner and his pleas. The sultan's smile faded, and his features became drawn and thoughtful. He leaned against the balustrade, and stared at those eleven all too life-like figures squatting on their pedestals of chiseled stone. The executioners were now supporting rather than holding fast the prisoner. And they themselves, hardened as they were to applying fire and steel, shifted uneasily, and licked their dry lips as they regarded the sultan. And when he turned, they dropped their eyes to avoid his eyes. Still the sultan did not speak. His presence was a smoldering doom. Then a poison sweetness crept up from the mouth of the pit. From its blacknesses emerged the figure of a bearded king, who solemnly advanced with measured steps, as to the cadence of a slowly beaten drum. The tongueless executioners dropped their implements, and made horrible, choking grasps at speech.