"Very good, Ismail," replied Zantut. "It seems that our enemy is in good hands: either dead or imprisoned. That saves us considerable annoyance. Being strangers, we could not handle an assassination as safely or effectively as the son of our Lord the Shareef." "But why," queried one of the adepts, "should Sayyid Absál have killed or captured this madman, Rankin?" "Iblis alone can say. Power and praise to Thousand-Eyed Malik Taûs!" "Praise and power to him!" intoned the assembled adepts in unison as they made with their left hands a curious fleeting gesture. "It may be," continued Zantut, "that the Shareef or Sayyid Absál doubted that Rankin is indeed the Elect, the reincarnated Abdemon who alone can thwart Iblis on the 14th of Nisan. Which is all the better; for then one of us can very easily approach the Shareef claiming to be the Elect, get possession of the lady Azizah on the pretext of breaking the spell that clouds her senses on nights of the full moon, and then seek the hidden vault. But it is late. Humayd, stand guard while we sleep." Humayd took his post, scimitar in hand. Zantut set aside his scrolls and stretched out on his divan. The adepts extinguished the flaring lamps and lay down on the thick rug at the foot of the Master's couch. * * * * * "Well," thought Rankin, as he surveyed his cell by the light of the jailer's torch as the barred door clanged shut, "I've been in worse holes than this." Odors were present, and vermin also; but by no means as plentiful or as unbearable as, for instance, they had been in the dungeons of the Emir's palace in Boukhara. And the air was almost fresh. In the course of a few years of adventure, one at times sleeps on a worse bed than the stone bench that ran along the wall of the cell. "And Ismeddin," reflected Rankin, "is doubtless on the job. All the worse for Iblis and his friends!" The very absence of any sign of Ismeddin seemed to Rankin to be certain proof that the wily old darvish was busily at work against the followers of Iblis, who was worshiped in Kurdistan as Malik Taûs, the Lord Peacock. Rankin had heard tales the length and breadth of Kurdistan, telling of the outrageous feats and resourcefulness of that unusual hermit who divided his time between the walls of his cavern and the palaces of princes: that is, when not engaged in the single-handed looting of caravans. Then, like any seasoned campaigner, Rankin sought and found the soft spots of the stone bench, and stretched out for as much sleep as the night afforded. But that sleep was to have its interruption. A pebble clicked against the wall at Rankin's side; and then another. "Ismeddin, by God!" was Rankin's first thought as he raised himself on his elbow and looked up at the tiny, barred window through which filtered the moon's dazzling whiteness.