One of the staring figures rose from his place along the wall. He moved as one receiving will and animation from some external source. "Harkening and obedience, _ya sidi_!" he acknowledged as he halted before the dais. "Your canjiar," murmured Hassan. The curved blade flashed from its sheath. "That knife is your gate to Paradise, _ya_ Asad," said Hassan in his gentle, purring voice. Yet beneath its suggestion Farrell sensed a relentless command. Asad inclined his head as he touched his fingertips to his forehead, his lips, and his breast. A pause--the blade flashed again as Asad thrust it full into his own chest. He stood for a moment fingering the hilt; then he tottered and sank to the tiles, to relax and lie sprawled face down in the dark pool that slowly spread across the paving. Farrell knew that beneath his grimy skin his cheeks were bloodless. It was horrible to see even a _hasheeshin_ spill his life carelessly as a glass of wine to humor that old man who peered over the edge of his veil. "There, _ya_ Ibrahim, is obedience." Farrell collected his courage and demanded boldly, "And why should any man yield such obedience?" "Because," came the reply, "I am the keeper of the gateway. He is even now in Paradise, and exempt from any recall." Farrell grimaced. "No more than any true believer gains for slaying an infidel," he retorted. "You will enter the Garden, _ya_ Ibrahim," murmured Hassan, "and see for yourself. Then you may accept or reject." To the Garden! There, unless all d'Artois' deductions were wrong, he would find Antoinette. But Farrell restrained his eagerness, and pondered a moment, as became the rôle he played. "I am ready, Prolonged of Life," he finally replied, as he advanced a pace. "Softly, softly," said Hassan. "Are you armed?" "_Ay, wallah!_" replied Farrell, drawing his remaining knife. Hassan again clapped his hands. "_Ya_ Suleiman! Yusuf!" Two rose from the ranks and approached. "Harkening and obedience, my lord," they said as they bowed. "This one claims to be a man of valor, O Devoted Ones!" said Hassan. "Draw!" Their blades were drawn as one. The slayers stood like panthers poised and ready to close in on their prey. Their eyes glowed in the red glare like beasts lurking in the shadows beyond a fire. Slaves to the mesmeric power of Hassan, and to the hypnotic hasheesh, they were men in form only. Hassan glanced at Farrell. "You may decline without penalty or dishonor," said the old man. "You are free, and owe us no obedience." "They are your men, _ya sidi_," replied Farrell with a shrug. "If you can spare them." The old man chuckled, and his eyes for a moment smiled. "Strike!" he commanded.