They paused for an instant before closing in. One of them, Farrell was certain, would go down before his first thrust, but the other would slay him. Farrell's success depended upon finesse. He shifted his feet as if to test the footing. He glanced over his shoulder as if to assure himself that he had room to retreat. All in a flash: and then they sprang, blades thirsty and a-glitter. Farrell's leap took him to the left instead of to the rear. He dropped his knife and snatched the wrist of the nearest enemy, who, missing his quarry, plunged forward abreast of his comrade. His own momentum was his ruin. There was the snap of a breaking bone, and Yusuf pitched in a heap before the dais. And Farrell, picking his knife from the tiles, confronted Suleiman, who despite his fanatic frenzy was profiting by Yusuf's mishap. They circled, feinting and thrusting, seeking to shake each other's guard. Suleiman avoided Farrell's efforts to close in to make it a test of strength. Nor would rushing in to exchange thrusts suffice: for if they slew each other, the Master would still not have the test he ordered. They wove in and out, shifting and side-stepping, each seeking an opening in the other's defense. Then Farrell made a desperate feint at his enemy's throat. As Suleiman's blade rose to parry, Farrell evaded, and stretched out in a full lunge, point forward and arm extended as with a rapier. The unexpected play caught Suleiman off guard. His downward thrust came an instant too late: Farrell's knife sank to the hilt in the enemy's stomach, ripping upward. * * * * * Farrell, bleeding from the cut on his shoulder, emerged from the engagement empty-handed as Suleiman collapsed. "Well done, _ya_ Ibrahim!" approved Hassan. Then he smote a gong beside the dais. "_Ya_ Musa! Abbas! Khalil!" he shouted. A panel opened at right of the dais, and three tall negroes entered. They made no expressions of obedience; only the inarticulate gurglings of those whose tongues have been removed. Hassan indicated the two dead, and the one whose arm was snapped. "To the black pool with them. All three!" Then, as two stepped forward to execute the command, Hassan spoke to the third: "Take our new aspirant, Ibrahim, to the Garden." Musa bowed, and at the Master's gesture of dismissal, led Farrell into a dimly lighted room which was arranged after the fashion of a _majlis_, or reception hall of an Arabian house. A narrow divan extended the full length of the wall. At the end farthest from the entrance were the customary coffee hearth and polished brass pots. And save for those, and the cushions and rugs with which the divan was covered, there were no furnishings. Farrell noted that he was not alone. Those who lay sprawled on the divan were, apparently, likewise to visit the Garden. "Dead-drunk ... drugged ... or spies to watch me," reflected Farrell.