"_You_, signal the guard? Now, by Allah, but this is too much! Who are you?" demanded the Shareef. The beggar readjusted his turban; reached with his right hand into his _djellab_ and over his left shoulder, dragging forth a large leather pouch; jerked the patch from his right eye; stretched himself, clutching skyward with his grimy talons; and then stood before the astonished Shareef, straight as a lance, fierce-eyed as a bird of prey. "I am Ismeddin! Whose head you swore you would have. As it is, I keep my head, and, _inshallah_, those two _asil_ mares," exulted the darvish. "By Allah and by Abaddon!" gasped Sayyid Yussuf. "Old thief, you dared venture into Tekrit at the risk of your head?" "Even so, my lord. For the promise of Suleiman has waited all these centuries for fulfilment. And the infidel Rankin, who was once Abdemon, could not have accomplished his mission single-handed. But now, to horse! Those sons of Iblis the Damned are mounted on your swiftest _meharis_." The Shareef snorted. "Follow me!" Their mounts stretched out in an extended gallop. "_Wallah!_" exulted Ismeddin, as he drew up beside the Shareef's mare. "She flies! And to think that I overlooked her when I raided your camp at Deir el Zor ... had your men but snored a moment longer ... but give me my sword, _saidi_ ... we have hot work ahead of us...." Ismeddin leaned forward in the saddle, caught the scimitar the Shareef tossed him, and buckled the belt about his waist. * * * * * Biban ul Djinni they called that desolate, narrow valley: the Valley of the Djinn. But these bearded strangers out of northern Kurdistan eagerly sought that avoided citadel where their dark monarch sat dreaming of ancient days before Suleiman learned the Word of Power; for this was the eve of the 14th of Nisan, when they could make secure for their lord forever after the triumph of that one day wherein he held absolute power over the word of Suleiman. Ten _meharis_ filed down an avenue dimly outlined by the stumps of shattered columns. They picked their way slowly, for the full moon had not yet risen to illuminate the desolation. Finally, at the end of the avenue, they halted. The seven _soi-disant_ darvishes dismounted and gathered about the kneeling _meharis_ that bore the rich _takht rawan_. Zantut parted the curtains and by the light of a torch looked in. "As I expected," he announced, "she is in a trance. Ibrahaim, stand guard," he commanded. "And keep an eye on the infidel, Rankin. The rest of you, follow me." Zantut, followed by his adepts, turned toward the black-tiled circular court at the extremity of the avenue up which they had ridden. "Look, master! There it is, just as it was written!" exclaimed one of the adepts as he pointed out to Zantut a copper image that gleamed dully on its basalt pedestal.