"Very good," acknowledged Zantut, as he stripped from Azizah the silken gauze that enfolded her. "This time our Lord will not be bothered with bungling swordsmen.... Unbeliever, would it not have been better to have stayed in _Feringhistan_ where you belong?" To which Rankin, bound and gagged, could reply with neither word nor gesture. "Ismeddin," thought Rankin, as he saw an acolyte kneel at Zantut's feet and present a long knife and a whetstone, "for once was wrong.... That butcher's tool is no thirsty sword...." Again the solemn, brazen resonance of the gong rolled and surged through the vaulted sanctuary. "Number two," reflected Rankin. "Thank God she's unconscious...." As the note of the gong died, there came from above the clank of arms and the tinkle of accouterments, and the measured tread of feet descending the winding stairways. "Ismeddin and the guard!" exulted Rankin. And then he heard the measured cadence of voices chanting in an unknown tongue. "The brethren from Azerbaijan!" shouted the assembled adepts. And Zantut, with statuesquely formal gestures, stroked the blade of his long knife against the whetstone, with each steely caress pausing to intone a sentence in a language that was forgotten when the last stone of that sanctuary of devil-worship was laid and awfully cemented into place. The brethren from Azerbaijan, still chanting, were filing into the hall, and grouping themselves in a crescent about the sacrificial stone. * * * * * Through the coolness of the desert's windswept night and through the sultry flame of its day rode Ismeddin and the Shareef, with but an occasional rest to share with their horses a handful of parched corn. But as the sun set on the eve of the 14th of Nisan, Ismeddin reined in the _asil_ mare. "Slowly, uncle. We must let those sons of confusion get into their underground rendezvous with Satan. They are eight ... eight at least----" "And doubtless, Hajj Ismeddin," laughed the Shareef, "you are an old man----" "Praise be to Allah," agreed the darvish, "my days have been many----" "And pious also," scoffed the Shareef. "But what is your plan, _Hajji_?" "The sentry at the entrance must be silenced without disturbance. As for the rest ... six or seven to one is not so bad.... _Inshallah!_ but I have a surprize for them. Hot fires for Satan's wings, _saidi_! "To our left front, an hour's easy ride from here, is Biban ul Djinni, in which the home of Malik Taûs is buried," continued Ismeddin as he scanned the horizon. Dusk came swiftly on the heels of sunset. The Shareef followed the dirty white blotch that was Ismeddin's _djellab_, and wondered what strange device the darvish had in mind. For while Ismeddin had signaled the captain of the guard, he had not given him a chance, even with the hardest riding, to overtake them. The encounter would surely be against odds.