"Yours will bring me luck, Hajj Ismeddin," replied Rankin. "Though all swords are alike tonight," he concluded, as with a final glance at the sleeping loveliness on the porphyry block, he turned to belt Ismeddin's scimitar to his waist. "No scabbards tonight," directed the darvish. "Take only the blade." As Rankin took his post, Ismeddin advanced to the foot of the dais. Extending his arms, Ismeddin began his invocation: "Father of Mockeries, Master of Deceptions," he intoned, "the dusty centuries are weary of your dominion. The word of Suleiman seeks its fulfilment, and the servant of Suleiman awaits your awakening. Dark Prince, Black Lord, the circle of your destiny has been drawn, and a doom awaits you with a sword." The darvish advanced a step of the ascent to the dais. "I know your hidden name, and I can speak it to your ruin," continued the darvish; and thus, step by step, he ascended. But on the last step, instead of speaking aloud, he leaned forward and whispered in the ear of the Dark Prince. "Harkening and obedience," growled the Presence. And like a doom that marches down the corridors of the world, he strode down the steps of his dais and entered the circle, facing Rankin. As he crossed the inner circumference, Ismeddin drew at the fourth cardinal point characters and symbols resembling those at the other three; and with a remnant of the red powder, he completed the outer circle. And all the while the Dark Presence stared at Rankin and beyond him cool and unconcerned, scorning even to smile his scorn. Ismeddin then struck light to the circle of powder. A tall, unwavering green flame crept along the circumference, until Rankin and his opponent were inclosed in a waist-high wall of fire: and this incredible flame emitted an overpowering sweetness that made Rankin's senses reel. He saw nebulous forms gathering behind the Dark Prince, and crowding against the wall of flame. They muttered to each other, and with their left hands made curious signs. Then, from a great distance, Rankin heard the thump-thump of a drum, and the solemn voice of Ismeddin: "Abdemon, friend of Suleiman; and you, Iblis, bound to human form, stand in this circle which is neither earth nor high heaven, nor the house of everlasting fire: and this circle but one of you may leave." A pause; and then Ismeddin's command: "Strike!" The drum resumed its savage muttering; and the opponents, swords advanced, circled warily, each seeking an opening in the other's guard. Then swift as thought came a relentless whirlwind of steel that bore Rankin back, step by step. The green flames singed his _kaftán_. Rankin halted, flat-footed, parrying and returning, cut for cut. And from without the circle of quivering, leaping flame the little drum muttered fiercely the song of doom which old Ismeddin's knuckles and finger tips coaxed from its head of serpent hide.