When he came to his senses, hours later, it was as if awakening from a hideous dream. He had indistinct memories of insane dashes into flame-swept streets, beneath infernal, incandescent canopies, past doorways belching red-hot blasts; of terrible repulse and flights for life; of renewed attempts, and bewilderment in fiery labyrinths whence escape seemed impossible; of weeping, laughing, and shouting frantically for Rava while he battled; of a long detour, later, through dark, fuliginous thoroughfares, hot and stifling as ovens; of finding himself wallowing in a stream, drinking and praying; and at last, of bursting from the darkness upon a squad of startled soldiers and of fighting with the fury of a maniac. How he escaped he knew not; but while he fought, welcoming wounds that seemed to ease his burns, he heard again the shrill, weird cry, "_Allah il Allah!_" saw a pikeman fall with an arrow in his brain, then another and another; and fled alone, unpursued. After this, dim wanderings through a Cimmerian wilderness of streets, black, desolate, stinking of dead embers, and of eternal length and intricacy, but cool. At last he heard a fountain; staggered into a ruined patio, drank deep, and dropped into the nearest corner, asleep in an instant. High noon roused him to consciousness of suffering. His swollen eyes would hardly open, and as he moved and groaned he heard a voice beside him:— "_Allah akbar_! I thought thou wouldst sleep to thy death. _Hola_! Canst see, Cristoval? Dost know me?" Cristoval’s smarting eyes came open with a start, and he stared up at a lank figure in burnoose and turban, bending over him. "José!" he exclaimed, thickly, his lips cracking with the effort, and he sat up, feeling for his sword. "No need for that, my friend!" said the old armorer. "But look thou, Cristoval: call me not José. A curse be upon the name! I am Abul Hassan Zegri. Be thankful that ’t is Abul Hassan Zegri, and not one of thy countrymen. What, Cristoval! Dost doubt me? Man, had it been my purpose to do thee harm, I would have saved thee the trouble of awakening!" Cristoval regarded him distrustfully a moment, and offered his hand. He was in a roofless, blackened apartment, off the court he had entered in search of water. The armorer had dragged him from the fountain into better concealment. "Canst drink?" asked Abul Hassan, tendering a smoke-stained vessel. The cavalier drank with avidity, nodding his thanks. Never a draught more delicious; never a drinker more grateful. The Morisco watched him in glum silence, brought more water, and more, and still not enough. "Ho! Let that suffice, Cristoval," he said, at length. Cristoval groaned, but yielded. "_Madre!_" he mumbled, conscious of his weakness, "what aileth me?"