"What escapes you, my Zeyneb!" cried the other, rising and stepping toward the doorway. "But tell me this,--are the horses of these three adventurers taken?"

Zeyneb gave a start and a curse.

"Blasted am I! Forgotten! Iftikhar left all in my hands. The horses are still where they were tethered. They will be taken by morning. I will go and send for them at once."

Before he could cry out, Morgiana had dashed to the door and shot the bolt.

"_Wallah!_ You rave," howled the dwarf, smitten with fear. "Help, Hakem!" For Morgiana, with arms outstretched, stood before the door, her face flaming defiance.

"Mary," cried Morgiana, "are you very strong? Pluck that adder Hakem round the neck, and hold fast! For the life of Richard Longsword, hold!"

Dwarf and eunuch had sprung on Morgiana, but the Greek also. Right round the body of the effeminate Hakem Mary cast her white arms, caught him, held him; for the strength of an angel was given her, and the eunuch's strength was that of a fatted sheep. Meantime Morgiana and Zeyneb waged their fiercer battle.

"Mad woman!" raged the dwarf, writhing, struggling, snapping as for dear life. "You shall be flogged for this, beheaded, flayed! Release, or you die! Release! Let go, or--" But Morgiana wrested him almost from his feet as they struggled, and every time he saw the terrible purpose in her eyes his heart sank lower. And still they wrestled.

"Help! Rescue!" shrieked the dwarf, feeling himself nigh mastered.

Even louder howled Hakem, tight held in the vise of Mary's arms.

Shrill above their cry was the laugh of Morgiana. "Aye, shriek! Call as you will," sped her boast. "Louder!--louder! Call Iftikhar, the eunuchs, the 'devoted.' Far below, none hear. Cry louder--we are alone in the tower of the palace. Call! Call! None hears save Allah, and it is He who fights for me! Call again! Make the stars pity, and rain their aid--naught is nearer!"

Zeyneb wrested one hand free. For a twinkling he brandished a dagger.

A second twinkling, it flew from his hand across the room.

"_Ya!_" rang the shout of his a.s.sailant. "See! I am strong, strong, and Allah fights for me,--for Morgiana the blue-eyed maid of Yemen!

_Bismillah_, it is done!"

And with the word Zeyneb's feet spun from beneath him. He fell heavily to the floor; so heavily that despite the rug he was senseless in a flash. Morgiana, with a great cry of delight, bounded after his dagger, secured it, was at Mary's side. Hakem was struggling desperately. He could not shake the Greek's hold, and dared not do her harm. The Arabian held the knife edge to his throat.

"Hakem," came her voice, hard as steel on steel, "let your heart say the 'Great Prayer,' the _Fat'hah_. You are going to die."

"Spare," pleaded the Greek, beginning to tremble, "spare that G.o.d may spare us!"

"Dead snakes never bite!" came the answer.

Mary never forgot the terrible glow on Morgiana's face when that deed was done, which made the Greek shiver. The body of the eunuch dropped from her arms, lay upon the rugs, the blood spurting from the neck.

The Arabian was kneeling over the p.r.o.ne form of Zeyneb. She thrust away the vest, laid a hand on his heart.

"Living!" whispered she, raising her eyes. "I may do wrong, but he is my foster-brother, and faithful to Iftikhar."

The Greek was too faint to do anything; but Morgiana rapidly plucked the curtain from the doorway, tore into strips, knotted about the dwarf's arms and feet. Then she felt in his bosom and drew forth a small key.

The three bronze lamps high up in the vault were flickering dimly. The shadows of the pillars lay long and dark across the gray slabs of the pavement. Upon the floor in irregular semicircle sat a score of figures in white mantle and turban, red girdle and shoes. The figures were rigid as marble, features moving not, lips speaking not; only the dark eyes flashed back the shimmerings of the lamps. In the centre of the group, and facing the others, another figure was standing, habited like the rest, save that the turban was black, and a great diamond, bright as a tiger's eye, twinkled against it. This figure was speaking.

"Musa, son of Abdallah, and you, G.o.dfrey and Richard, lords of the Franks,"--the words came cold and metallic,--"you have been brought before the tribunal of the holy Order of Ismael. You have been accused of being the foes and plotting the hurt of the Grand Prior of Syria, Iftikhar Eddauleh. Nor have you denied this; you have confessed you desired his hurt, you have boasted you desired his death and dishonor.

And now it behooves to ask, were you acquainted with the lot of those who so much as imagine harm to the least 'aspirant,' a _Las[=i]k_ of the sacred Ismaelians, far from comparing such to the vice-gerent of our Lord Ha.s.san Sabah's self?"

Whereupon Musa, facing the semicircle, with Richard and G.o.dfrey at his side, answered in his melodious Arabic:--

"We well understand that he who offends against one of your order shall sooner receive mercy from Eblees than from you. Knowing that, we went forth; knowing that, we stand here. Our foe is Iftikhar Eddauleh.

You are his slaves; bought cattle were not his more utterly. Proceed to sentence."

Rain beating an iron wall had made deeper dint than his words on that array of stony features. A long silence--then the former speaker looked upon his colleagues. Slowly he began: "It is the custom, O Ismaelians,--and it is here observed,--that those admitted to the degrees called _Tessis_ and _Teevil_, the sixth and seventh of our holy brotherhood, shall sit in judgment upon those brought within danger of the cord. You have heard these men and the accusation. The mysteries of our order, the mandate of our Lord Ha.s.san Sabah, are known to you. Yet let me repeat the word of the first of the seven Imams, the Lord Hossein the martyr, as runs the revered tradition, 'He that offendeth the least of you, let him wash away his guilt in his own blood.' Therefore I command that whosoever of you may believe these men cleared and worthy of liberty, let him speak forth; but whosoever thinks they should endure the cord, keep silence. For speech is life, and silence is death. I have spoken."

Silence--while the lamps flickered, flickered, and the shadows swung on floor and walls; and still the chief stood facing the twenty, who moved not, nor gave sound. Then at last--after how long! he spoke,--a voice as from the grave.

"There is no word. Let the law be fulfilled. Judgment is p.r.o.nounced.

The cord!" The chief seated himself and there was stillness as before, until a distant bell pealed out, once, twice, thrice, four times,--five! With noiseless step, the tall Harun glided from behind a pillar and plucked Musa's elbow.

"Doom!" Harun held up a silken noose, plaited tight, and pointed to the floor. "Kneel," he commanded softly; "you are Moslem, I grant you this joy, you shall not see your friends die."

Musa turned to the Franks. Their hands were bound, but their eyes could greet.

"Sweet friends," said he, smiling as ever in his gentle, melancholy way, "we must part. But my hope in Allah is strong. We shall meet before His throne!"

"G.o.d is with us all!" answered Richard. "He is very pitiful."

But G.o.dfrey did not speak. Longsword knew his thoughts were not of Musa, nor of the tribunal, nor even of the shadow of death; but of the Christian host surprised by Kerbogha, and of the Holy City left in captivity.

"I am ready," said Musa to Harun; and he prepared to kneel.

A tremor, a wind of the spirit, seemed pa.s.sing over all those chiselled faces. Musa and all others heard music,--a song,--quavering, sighing, throbbing melody, wafted down the long underground galleries from very far away. At first no clear word was borne to them, but the sweetest note Richard in his life had heard. Was the great change come so nigh that one heard G.o.d's white host singing? Musa stood fast.

Harun was rooted also, the cord hung limp in his hand, all forgotten, save the wondrous song. Now at last the burden came dimly:--

"Genii who rule o'er the tempest and wind, Peris who tread where red coral lies deep, Show forth your haunt that my fleet foot may find Where the cool moss caves 'neath the green waves sleep.

"Lie they under the sea that by Ormuz darkles, Or the broad blue bay of the Golden Isles?

Or where breeze-loved haven in far west sparkles, Alight with the sun's ne'er-vanishing smiles?"

The voice swelled nearer; the rhythm was quicker, measure shorter, words stronger. The song became a prayer, a cry.

"Away! away from the grief and jarring Of this toilsome life and its pang I'd be!

Forgetting earth and all strife and warring, Wrap me away to the breast of the sea!

"Wreathe me chaplets with sea-flowers brightest, With the feath'ry sea-mosses make me dressed!

Make my pillow the wind-spray whitest; Rock me to sleep on the storm-waves' crest!"

Was it day that was dawning on each of those stony faces? Why this whisper; this rustle of white gowns; this mutter "Allah! Allah!" under the snowy turbans? "Truly G.o.d's angels come!" Richard's soul cried. He thought to see the vaulting open; the heavens fleeing away as unclean.

What angel could sing of paynim genii and peris? But the voice yet approached, ever louder, clearer:--

"Sing, oh, sing, all ye fair, pure spirits!

Spirit I, to your band I'd flee; Blest the soul who for aye inherits To rove with you through your kingdom free!"

Now the song was so near that all eyes ran into the dark for the oncoming singer, and every white robe had risen when the last lines sounded:--

"Clearer, clearer the silvery pealing Of enchanted bells steals my heart afar!