"_Bismillahi!_" exclaimed the Shareef, as he paused for breath. And then, listening to the increasing uproar from the courtyard: "Mamoun and the guard are at it!" "_Wallah!_ But he made good time," agreed Ismeddin. "Do you blame me for stealing a few horses like those, Cousin of the Prophet?" "Not after a night like this," panted the Shareef. "And now," resumed Ismeddin, "let us attend to our work downstairs. Much is to be done, and there is little time." They retraced their steps, picking their way among the devil-worshipers that lay on the slippery stairs. "Seven ... eight," counted Ismeddin as he led the way, "nine ... son of a disease, how did I miss you?" The old man's blade drove home. "Nine ... ten ... eleven," continued the darvish. "And now, when we release Saidi Rankin, we will see some fighting. The Father of Lies must step from his black throne and meet Abdemon, sword to sword. And if Abdemon defeats him, the promise of Suleiman will at last be kept." "But he is a _kaffir_!" protested the Shareef. "And my brother's daughter----" "Be that as it may. If Saidi Rankin wins, it will only be because it so pleases Allah. Would you rather leave her spirit in the hands of Shaitan the Damned? Give me a hand, here," directed Ismeddin, as they halted at the black altar on which the prisoners lay bound. * * * * * Together they pushed the massive block a dozen paces from the throne, then cut the cords that bound Rankin, and removed from between his teeth the piece of wood with which he had been gagged. "Ismeddin!" gasped Rankin as he stretched his numbed limbs. "How much of this did you foresee?" "All of it, _saidi_," smiled the darvish. "Except the final outcome. And that, _inshallah_, depends on your sword." Rankin leaped to the tiled floor and flexed his cramped legs. He stared in wonder at the unveiled features of Azizah. "Allah, and again, by Allah! Neferte ... after all these centuries.... Then give me a sword!" "Presently, my lord, presently." And then, to the Shareef: "_Kaffir_ or true believer, she is his ... for even Satan's fortune can not last forever." Whereupon Ismeddin with a piece of chalk traced on the floor a circle some ten paces in diameter; and at three of the four cardinal points of the compass he inscribed a curious symbol, and several characters in the ancient Kufic script. Then from his knapsack he took a small box whose contents, a fine, reddish powder, he poured evenly in a circle that inclosed the first circle drawn in chalk, except for a yard-long gap precisely in front of the dark stranger's throne. "Saidi Rankin--Abdemon, as tonight you are--take your post," commanded the darvish. "Just a pace from the inner circumference, and facing that dark mocker on his lofty throne. Will you use my sword, or that of our lord, the Shareef?"