"Look, _saidi_," chanted the beggar, as he gathered handfuls of sand and let it trickle between his fingers. "Look at this sand which is the dust of unremembered kings and the dust of forgotten slaves ... look at this sand over which kings and slaves have marched, endless procession, ages without end...." The beggar's gesture of scooping sand lengthened until his hands swept in an arc from the ground to the full extent of his arm. The cool breeze caught the fine dust, blowing it into little clouds that whisked and whirled uncannily. "And that moon, _saidi_, that pale moon who hides her face behind a veil, _saidi_ ... let her bear witness, for she has seen all things and knows all things...." As the beggar chanted, the breeze centered in a vortex between him and the Shareef. "Look closely, _saidi_ ... these sands bear witness, and this dust bears witness ... and this moon also, who knows all things...." Faster and yet faster the old man flung sand before him; yet slower and still more slowly he chanted in murmuring monotone, like the maddening pulse of a necromancer's drum. Sayyid Yussuf stared fixedly into the veil of ever moving, ever present, living dust ... for the dust lived, and danced in tiny figures before him.... He shuddered.... "And now you see that which there is to see," chanted the beggar. "Now you see the peril into which you sent Azizah ... they file into the black pit of the Lord of the Black Hands ... and Abdemon whom you denied is bound, and can not save her ... it is written in this dust, saidi ... it is written on these sands ... and this moon bears witness, this moon who knows all that is to be ... for that which is to be is one with that which has been, O cousin of the Prophet...." The beggar abruptly ceased chanting, and clapped his hands sharply. "_Wallah!_" gasped the Shareef, blinking. "By my beard!" He trembled violently at that which had left the beggar's swiftly weaving hands to dance in the tiny whirlwinds before him. "That sign with the left hand, old man----" "Just as I said. But it has not yet happened----" "Not yet?" The Shareef vaulted to the saddle. "No. But wait a moment. We have time. Your horses are fast." The beggar drew from somewhere in the ragged folds of his dirty _djellab_ a slender tube the length of his forearm. "Strike light, _saidi_!" he commanded. The Shareef fumbled with flint and steel. "The fire of your pistol will do!" snapped the beggar. The Shareef fired. Then the sputtering of a fuse, and a shower of sparks, and three red stars hung high above them, flamed ruddily for half a minute, and vanished. "The _Feringhi_ troops used them to signal," explained the beggar. "I stole a box of them at Beirut." "Ah!" And the Shareef frowned. "Old man, whom are you signaling? On your head----" He leveled his pistol. "Peace upon you, my lord," grinned the beggar. "I am signaling a detachment of the guard to follow us as fast as their horses can travel."