Then, lest a repetition of the signal attract the attention of the sentry posted somewhere in the hall leading to the door of the cell, Rankin intoned the sonorous first lines of the Sura of the Brightness, as any piously inclined prisoner might do in resigning himself to captivity: "_By the noonday brightness, and by the night when it darkeneth! Thy Lord hath not forsaken thee, neither hath he been displeased._" The pebbles ceased. But the hand thrust in between the bars of the window was certainly not the grimy talon of Ismeddin. The slender white fingers released a scrap of paper that fluttered a moment in the moonlight, then, passing out of the beam, settled to the floor where in the darkness Rankin could just distinguish it. "_Truly the future shall be better for thee than the Past_," concluded Rankin. "_And thy Lord shall be gracious, and thou satisfied._" The jeweled fingers gestured ever so slightly, paused a moment, and disappeared. Rankin curbed his impatience and contented himself with staring at the scarcely perceptible blotch that was the note from his unknown friend. Very faintly from the hall came the snore of the sentry. "My devoutness was wasted," thought Rankin, as he arose to get the note. "Still, a bit of piety is never out of order." Rankin struck a match. One sufficed, for the note was brief: _Bismillahi!_ Neferte to Abdemon, greeting! The darvish, Ismeddin, will spring the bars of your cell and release you on the night of the 12th of Nisan. Ride and overtake us at the oasis of al Akra. The night of the twelfth ... two days of hard riding ... well, that would not be so bad ... so let Ismeddin do the worrying for the next few hours.... * * * * * On the evening of the 12th, the porter admitted seven darvishes seeking audience of the Shareef shortly before the sunset prayer. "Prayer and the Peace upon you, Cousin of the Prophet," saluted Zantut as he bowed low before the white-bearded Shareef. "My companions and I have ridden day and night from the north of Kurdistan in our haste to fulfil an ancient prophecy. It is written----" Zantut paused and turned to the adept at his left: "Humayd, tell the Cousin of the Prophet, our Lord the Shareef, of your vision." "Three nights ago," began Humayd, after receiving the Shareef's permission to speak, "I was sitting in contemplation of holy things, when suddenly a great light appeared in my cave. A tall stranger whose face and garments shone like the noonday sun stood there before me. "'Rise at once, Abdemon,' he said, 'and with your pious companions seek the house of the Shareef, Sayyid Yussuf----' "'A thousand pardons,' I replied, 'but I am Humayd, a darvish, and not Abdemon.'