"_Wallah!_" marveled the Shareef. "_Kaffir_ or not, he is the father of all swordsmen! I knew that his head would be clipped off. And then he stretched out and impaled that son of confusion.... Look! That stroke sheared off a bit of his turban. Allah, and again, by Allah!" "Then give him his prize, _saidi_," replied Ismeddin. And to Azizah, who sat upright and wondering on the polished black sacrificial stone: "You need no veil, _ya bint_! After all these dusty centuries, you are his." Ismeddin turned to the Shareef: "As for me, _saidi_, I will be content with but one of those _asil_ mares you wagered against my cracked head." "So be it," laughed the Shareef, as he led the way up the blood-drenched stairs. "Though doubtless you will steal the other in due course!"