On the morning of the same day, when Hamet returned from his usual visit to the sôk, he reported that a camel-driver had arrived, bearing a message from a Jew of Rabat, Salathiel ben Ezra by name, who proposed to come in person to see the sheikh, and had sent a swift rider in advance to request a safe-conduct. The Jews are tolerated, scorned, made to do menial work, in the ports; in remote districts of Morocco they carry their lives in their hands. But the message conveyed to the sheikh had been such that Salathiel’s request was granted, and a dozen men had been sent on horseback towards the coast as an escort. Hearing this, Abdul decided that at all costs he must return to his employer. Under cover of the night he had contrived to slip away from the village, and had come back by a circuitous route so as to make sure of not being intercepted. “But what of the prisoner?” asked Tom. “Did you learn anything of him?” “Yes, master. He is in the sheikh’s kasbah.” “What is kasbah?” “Strong place, master; thick walls; a very bad prison.” “We are on the right track, Oliphant,” said Tom. “It looks bad, though. Ingleton will be pretty well guarded, you may be sure; and I don’t for the life of me see how we can break into a strong place and get him out.” “Unless we bribe his jailers. Could we get him away with bakshish, Abdul?” “No, master. The sheikh would cut hands and feet off, put eyes out, and more.” “Evidently we’ve got our work cut out, Oliphant. And you may depend upon it our friend Salathiel has somehow found out our errand and is coming to warn the sheikh. I remember now that I saw him talking to one of the Moors who came aboard the yacht.” “That explains it.” “How long will it take him to get here, Abdul?” “Two three days, master.” “We must be beforehand with him, then. Are you prepared for short rations, Oliphant? Our grub won’t last more than another day.” “Plenty dates and figs in woods, master,” said Abdul. “We shan’t starve, then. Let’s have a good sleep, Oliphant. We shall want all our strength for this job.” “We shall indeed. Poor old pater! Wouldn’t he have the blues if he knew where I am!” CHAPTER VIII—THE SWORDSMITH OF AIN AFROO The approaching advent of the Jew had introduced a new element of danger into the enterprise. If he should reach the village before Ingleton was released, clearly the game was up. Instead of getting a good sleep, Tom lay awake, talking over the situation with Oliphant. He got Abdul to describe the kasbah, but the description was so vague—the Moor when he lived in the village having taken the stronghold for granted—that he felt incapable of making any plans without seeing the place for himself. When he made this suggestion Oliphant scouted it. “For one thing,” he said, “it’s too dangerous; for another, where do I come in?”