"At great length, _saidi_," responded Rankin, "even as he explained that due to various misunderstandings you two have had regarding some horses, he could scarcely appear in person to present me to you. But I came, nevertheless. Is it not written," quoted Rankin, "_There is no shield to turn aside the spear cast of Destiny: gold, glory, silver, each avail not?_" "Spoken like a true believer," agreed the Shareef. And then, sharply, "Testify!" "_La illaha illa allah_----" began Rankin, and paused. The sequence was familiar as his own name, but Rankin was not truly a Moslem, and one can not testify falsely when the word of Suleiman and its fulfilment lie in one's hands. "_Wa Muhammad er-rasul allahi!_" recited the red-bearded chief. "I have testified in his place. And let us consider that this infidel has testified that Muhammad is the prophet of God as well as that there is no God but Allah. For if he can wear the seal of Suleiman Baalshem without harm, it makes little difference what he testifies. For Allah is wise, all-knowing," concluded Sayyid Absál sonorously. "There is something in what you say," conceded the Shareef. "Still, am I to entrust the welfare of my brother's daughter to the hands of an infidel? And an infidel sent by that bandit of an Ismeddin!" "But," protested the redbeard, "didn't he prove himself? He is the stout swordsman of the tradition, Abdemon whose skill was the delight of Suleiman, ages ago, and whose sword must give the word of Suleiman its only chance of fulfilment. And he has the seal----" "Mummeries to fool true believers!" growled the Shareef. "Tonight is but the 11th of Nisan. I will look into this fellow's story, and on the 12th I will either let him carry out his plan, or else----" The old man nodded significantly at the stalwart African at his left, who was toying with the hilt of a ponderous two-handed sword. The Shareef clapped his hands. "Show this unbeliever every consideration," he directed, as two slaves approached at his signal. "But on your lives, keep him locked up." "The swords," thought Rankin, as his escort led him to a cell, "may quench their thirst unless Ismeddin is closer than he seems." Just before he passed out of ear-shot, he caught the faint tinkle of anklets, but he dared not turn back for even a glance at Azizah, who once had almost been his. * * * * * Zantut, servant of Iblis and high priest of the devil-worshipers who had come down from the mountains of Kurdistan, sat in an upper room of the _caravanserai_ just across the street from that selected by Rankin the day before. Two lamps flared ruddily at each side of the Master, casting a flickering light on the parchment scroll he studied. Zantut muttered to himself as he spelled out, line by line, the fine, intricate characters of the manuscript.