The bewildered sheikh listened apathetically as Mr Hicks translated the words, but when the Beni Ismail drew aside to allow him to pass, he seemed to recognise all at once that he was free, and setting spurs to his horse, darted off into the desert like the wind. As his late custodians stood watching him, he reined up when almost out of sight, and returned. “O Prince of the Jews, the Beni Ayub are thy servants,” he cried. “Never would I have laid wait for thee but for the words of the old man who came to our tents with the servant of the Consulate of Scythia, and tempted thy servant with great gifts to detain thee in the desert for a space. Now that I know thy power and thy wisdom, never again will I or the Beni Ayub raise a spear against thee or thy servants the Beni Ismail.” Dismounting, he raised the hem of Cyril’s cloak to his lips, exchanged greetings with the sheikh of the Beni Ismail, and rode away again. “All’s well that ends well,” said Cyril. “And now for Damascus!” They rode on briskly, only to halt again an hour later. This time it was to bid farewell to the Beni Ismail, who in their enthusiasm for their new leader had accompanied him far beyond their usual limits, although for some time they had been looking askance at every hillock, lest it should conceal that abomination of the desert Arab, a house. The sheikh received Cyril’s messages for the Queen--including another earnest recommendation not to cross the desert until the Beni Ayub had returned to their usual haunts--his men salaamed, with frank admiration beaming in their bold eyes, and stood gazing lingeringly as Cyril and his two companions rode away. There were no more halts now, and as the cultivated land was reached, the roads became better. The unpleasant passage through the burying-ground was accomplished at a reckless pace, and a judicious _bakhshish_ prevented awkward inquiries at the city gate. Riding more cautiously through the crowded streets, the three adventurers, worn out with hard travelling and want of sleep, drew rein at the door of the house which they had left just three weeks before. Paschics rushed into the courtyard to meet them, with bloodshot eyes and the dishevelled aspect of a man who has slept for several nights in his clothes, and wept tears of joy when he saw Cyril. “Your Excellency is come. Then all is not lost!” he gasped. “Well, what is it?” asked Cyril, dismounting.