The slimy, glistening sides of the passage indicated that they were far beneath the surface of the city; perhaps in that labyrinth of vaults and connecting tunnels of which local tradition has murmured darkly and vaguely. Although his head ached from contact with material weapons wielded by physical enemies, Farrell shuddered at the evil that brooded about that archaic masonry and muttered of that which had emerged to defile the dead with obscene necromancies, and torment the living with monstrous hallucinations that came in the guise of dreams. The aura of age-old menace overpowered the terror of the Ismailian assassins. "To your left," commanded the warden. As Farrell rounded the turn, he saw ahead of him a glow of light and smelled the heavy, lingering fumes of incense. An Arab, and a bearded man whose race he could not determine, stood watch at the farther archway. Their hands rested on their belts, ready to draw knife or pistol. Their eyes stared fixedly from immobile features. They were drugged, or entranced: and Farrell shivered at the necessity of convincing himself that they were not dead. "Pass on," commanded the warden as Farrell hesitated at the threshold. "The Master, our lord Hassan, will receive you." The lord Hassan--the one whose name the dying La Dorada had with her last breath pronounced. She had known who had ordered her death. A thrill of exultation was mingled with the flash of dread that assailed Farrell as he stepped into the reception hall of Hassan, that slayer of women and master of necromancers. The room was long and narrow, and sweltering in a red glow of light. A Persian carpet ran down the center toward the divan in an arched alcove at the farther end. A man wearing a silken kaftan sat cross-legged among heaped cushions. His face was veiled, but his fierce eyes, smoldering in their deep sockets, were more menacing for being all that was visible. Farrell halted midway between the alcove and the entrance. From the corner of his eye he saw a row of men, dressed in European clothes, sitting cross-legged along the wall on either side of him. Their arms were crossed on their breasts, and their eyes stared as glassily as those of the guards at the entrance. They were drugged, or deep in a hypnotic trance. Farrell offered the peace. "No peace and no protection, ya Ibrahim," responded Hassan, "until we have made a test of you." "_Tawil ul 'Umr_," demanded Farrell with a touch of respect such as even a blustering Afghan would concede an old man; "Prolonged of Life, how am I to be tested?" The old man reflected for a moment. His glittering eyes narrowed to slits. "Tell me, can you obey as well as slay?" "How should I know, Prolonged of Life?" proposed Farrell. "By your beard, I have never tried obedience. I am of the Durani clan." "You will learn," said Hassan. "I will set you an example." He glanced to his left and clapped his hands. "Asad!" he called sharply.