The chief at last drew up before a massive, iron-studded gate that was firmly hinged to the heavy masonry jamb and wall. He thumped the brazen lock-plate with the pommel of his scimitar. The door opened without a challenge from the porter within. The redbeard dismounted and signaled his men-at-arms to release Rankin from his silken web. At the end of a long, narrow passage, they turned into a courtyard where fountains sprayed mistily in the moonlight. Rankin's captors released their grip on his arms; and one of them presented Rankin's scimitar, hilt foremost. Rankin accepted the blade and glanced sharply about him. More combat? The chief smiled. "You are among friends, Saidi Rankin." "Your playmates didn't look so friendly," retorted Rankin. "I am Absál, the son of our lord the Shareef," continued the redbeard, "and my six playmates were only to assure me of your identity. There are others on the same mission that leads you to Tekrit. Anyway, before I could signal Silat up there on the wall with his net, three of my men were out of action." "One should," agreed Rankin, "always be sure of a stranger's identity. But what if they had cut me into many small pieces?" Absál shrugged. "_Wallah!_ That would have been deplorable, of course. But it would have proved to my entire satisfaction that you are not the man for the venture I have in mind. As it is----" "As it is, saidi," interrupted Rankin, "you think that perhaps I may be fit to meet the Black Presence in the vault on the night of the 14th of Nisan?" "_Inshallah!_" evaded Absál. "If it please God. And our lord the Shareef has a good deal to say about that." A gong clanged. The heavy drapes that masked the horseshoe arch in the left wall of the courtyard parted, revealing a long, narrow room at whose farther end was a dais on which sat a white-bearded, hook-nosed man: Absál's father, the Shareef. They paused in the archway to bow, and offer the peace. "_Wa'salaam aleikum!_" responded the Shareef. And then, after scrutinizing Rankin with his hard, piercing eyes: "So this is the stout swordsman of the tradition?" "Even so, father," replied Absál. The old man twice clapped his hands. There was a rustling behind the curtains at the Shareef's right, and the tinkle of anklets. The curtains parted slightly, and Rankin again looked into the smoldering, Saracenic eyes of the veiled lady of the market-place. "Is this the man?" queried the Shareef, half turning to catch the eye of the girl in the doorway. "This is indeed the man, uncle." "Very well," he acknowledged. And then, to Rankin: "If you are the man, what is your hidden name?" "Abdemon." "Again, very well," agreed the Shareef. "Now tell me, Abdemon, how it was that Suleiman Baalshem could not keep his promise to you; and why, through all these dusty centuries, the word of Suleiman has been in the power of Shaitan the Damned."