After a while the sun set, the swift twilight passed, and the young moon shone in the west, above the dead, sunset colors. Oman was sleepy. It seemed fitting that, with night, he should rest. He wondered a little if he was to die in the watch-tower, forgotten, and raving for water. To his dulled mind it made little difference, just now. Wondering, stupidly, he fell asleep. Oman had, however, been by no means forgotten. Shortly after moonset, which was very early that night, he was waked by two men—soldiers—who, penetrating his retreat, undid his bonds by the light of a torch, and addressed certain sharp words to him in their unknown tongue. Oman, obeying the instinct of common sense, rose to his feet, swayed and reeled with numbness, and was promptly pummelled into sensibility by one of the men who seemed to understand what he needed. So, presently, the three of them, Oman with a soldier on either side, descended the narrow stone steps of the tower and came out upon the causeway. Here was a sight to try the nerves of the Mohammedan conqueror himself. All was deathly still, yet already men were working by the light of torches, the sickly, flickering glare of which cast streaks of light and shadow over the horrid scene. The whole width of the bridge reeked and steamed with blood; and here and there separate bodies blocked the central path. Against the high balustrades, on either hand, were great, inextricable heaps of slain. At the sight, Oman’s gorge rose; but, at the same time, there shot into his mind the question: “Why am I not lying here? What was it that preserved me from death?” He had seen Osman’s look; but he could not account for it. He only knew that quarter had been given him where nobody else was spared; and, even before this scene of horror, he sighed; for he had long since been ready to face the Unknown Beyond.