“As walls go,” Ortho admitted. “But what are walls nowadays? They take so long to build, so short a time to destroy. Why, our Turk gunners breached the Derunat walls in five places in an hour. The sole use for walls is to contain the defenders in a small space, then every bomb we throw inside does its work.” “Hum!” The Basha stroked his brindled beard. “Hum—but supposing the enemy harass you in the open?” Ortho shrugged his shoulders. “Then we kill them in the open, that is all. It takes longer, but they suffer more.” “It took you a long time at Figvig,” the Basha observed maliciously. “Not after we learned the way.” “And what is the way?” “We take possession of the wells and they die of thirst in the sands and save us powder. At Figvig there were many wells; it took time. Here—” He swept his hand over the burning champagne and snapped his fingers. “Just that.” “Hum,” said the Basha and walked away deep in thought. Day after day came and went and Ortho was not dead yet. He had an idea that he was getting the better of the bluffing match, that the Basha’s nerve was shaking and he was passing it on. There came a morning when the trails were hazy with the dust of horsemen hastening in to Tenduf, and the envoy on the kasba tower knew that the crisis had arrived. It was over by evening. The tribute began to come in next day and continued to roll in for a week more. The Basha accompanied Ortho ten miles on his return journey, regretting any slight misconstruction that might have arisen and protesting his imperishable loyalty. He trusted that his dear friend Saïd el Inglez would speak well of him to the Sultan and presented him with two richly caparisoned horses and a bag of ducats as a souvenir of their charming relations. Slowly went the train; the horses were heavy laden and the heat terrific. Ortho dozed in the saddle, impatient at the pace, powerless to mend it. He beguiled the tedious days, mentally converting the Basha’s ducats into silks and jewelry for Ourida. It was the end of August before he reached Taroudant. There he got word that the court had moved to Rabat and he was to report there. Other news he got also, news that sent him riding alone to Morocco City, night and day, as fast as driven horseflesh would carry him. He went through the High Atlas passes to Goundafa, then north across the plains by Tagadirt and Aguergour. From Aguergour on the road was crawling with refugees—men, women, children, horses, donkeys, camels loaded with household goods staggering up the mifis valley, anywhere out of the pestilent city. They shouted warnings at the urgent horseman: “The sickness, the sickness! Thou art riding to thy death, lord!” Ortho nodded; he knew. It was late afternoon when he passed through Tameslouht and saw the Koutoubia minaret in the distance, standing serene, though all humanity rotted.