"By gad," said Godwin, as Yellow-eyes fluttered down to perch on his shoulder, "then it's finished, and as neat a case of poetic justice as ever came my way." He looked about him. Mihrjan had on his own initiative sent the Bedouins and Crusaders back to their own places. Only corpses met his eye. "To horse, friends!" he bellowed gleefully. "This battle's done, and there are a power and lashing of wrongs left in the world to be righted!" "Oh, heavens," groaned Ramizail. "Don't you even want to rest a week or two, swashbuckler?" "Rest is for the dead and the aged, witch-wench." El Sareuk nodded fiercely. "The work for willing swords is never done, lass." Ramizail rolled up her beautiful eyes and shrugged, a slight smile of resignation on her full lips. Mihrjan pointed out their horses, saddled and champing at a little distance. "O Lord of My Life, I know a wrong in Egypt that needs four, or it might be eight, strong hands," said he. "We are in Egypt, by coincidence," said Ramizail. "This Egypt lies three thousand years in the past," said Mihrjan. "Can you transport us back?" asked Godwin eagerly. "Assuredly, Sire." "Well then, let's go!" he roared. He put an arm over the shoulder of El Sareuk and another about the slim waist of Ramizail, and ran them toward the horses. And Mihrjan's great laugh of fierce pleasure boomed thunderously through the desert air....