The Caliph waited for no proofs, he wanted none. It was enough that Abdul-asis was accused, and that his death would be the heaviest punishment he could inflict on the unfortunate Mousa. * * * * * When the fatal scroll was laid before Ayub the parchment dropped from his hand. “Allah is great!” cried he, as soon as words came to him. “It is known of all men I have taken no part in my cousin’s marriage; rather that I have always opposed it. Beware, said I, of the seductions of love. Avoid the strange woman upon whose face is written an evil fate. As long as I could I counselled him well, as I had promised his father. Now the Caliph’s commands must be obeyed, else we shall all lose our heads, which will not keep that of Abdul-asis on his shoulders.” Thus spoke Ayub, discreet to the last. As long as he could shield the Emir he had done so loyally. Now that he must die he hastened to assist at his downfall. * * * * * The assassins came upon them as they sat together beneath a purple awning, drawn from tree to tree,--four naked Nubians, black as night, with four naked scimitars. So lightly fell their bare feet as they glided behind them, they looked like some hideous vision of the night. Before the dawn of day, Abdul-asis and Egilona had risen, disturbed by the noise of the populace without. No one would tell them what it meant. While the Emir was preparing to go himself to the walls, to inquire if Egilona had returned from praying in a little chapel she had caused to be erected within the limits of the harem, their fate came to them. Together they fell under the cruel steel, together their bodies lay exposed upon the stones. The dogs of the palace would have mangled them, but that some friendly hand gathered them up and interred them secretly in one of the many squares of the garden. Where they lie, no one knows, or if it was the discreet Ayub who buried them. But as the time of the year comes round when they suffered, in the hour preceding dawn, stifled sighs and groans are heard in the angles of the walls, and a universal tremor runs through the space; although the outer air is still, a sudden tempest seems to rustle, the fan palms quiver as if shaken by unseen hands, the pale-leaved citrons bow their heads to a mysterious blast, clouds of white blossoms cover the earth like snow, and the leaves of the yellow jasmine fly as if with wings. Then a clash of scimitars breaks the silence, the shadowy form of a stately lady floats across the pavement, closely followed by the figure of a Moor, who sighs and wrings his hands, gliding on into the thickness of the woods, when a dark cloud gathers and they disappear. CHAPTER XI The Moors at Cordoba