Beyond Zeyd was Ibn Jad, but Fahd was not aiming at Ibn Jad either. At whom was he aiming? No one. Not yet was the time ripe to slay the sheik. First must they have their hands upon the treasure, the secret of which he alone was supposed to hold.
Fahd aimed at one of the am’dan of the sheik’s tent. He aimed with great care and then he pulled the trigger. The prop splintered and broke a foot above the level of Ibn Jad’s head, and simultaneously Fahd threw down the musket and leaped upon the startled Zeyd, at the same time crying loudly for help.
Startled by the shot and the cries, men ran from all directions and with them was the sheik. He found Zeyd being held tightly from behind by Fahd.
“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Ibn Jad.
“By Ullah, Ibn Jad, he would have slain thee!” cried Fahd. “I came upon him just in time, and as he fired I leaped upon his back, else he would have killed you.”
“He lies!” cried Zeyd. “The shot came from behind me. If any fired upon Ibn Jad it was Fahd himself.”
Ateja, wide-eyed, ran to her lover. “Thou didst not do it, Zeyd; tell me that thou didst not do it.”
“As Allah is my God and Mohammed his prophet I did not do it,” swore Zeyd.
“I would not have thought it of him,” said Ibn Jad.
Cunning, Fahd did not mention the matchlock. Shrewdly he guessed that its evidence would be more potent if discovered by another than he, and that it would be discovered he was sure. Nor was he wrong. Tollog found it.
“Here,” he exclaimed, “is the weapon.”
“Let us examine it beneath the light,” said Ibn Jad. “It should dispel our doubts more surely than any lying tongue.”
As the party moved in the direction of the sheik’s beyt Zeyd experienced the relief of one reprieved from death, for he knew that the testimony of the matchlock would exonerate him. It could not be his. He pressed the hand of Ateja, walking at his side.
Beneath the light of the paper lanterns in the mukaad Ibn Jad held the weapon beneath his gaze as, with craning necks, the others pressed about him. A single glance sufficed. With stern visage the sheik raised his eyes.
“It is Zeyd’s,” he said.
Ateja gasped and drew away from her lover.
“I did not do it! It is some trick,” cried Zeyd.
“Take him away!” commanded Ibn Jad. “See that he is tightly bound.”
Ateja rushed to her father and fell upon her knees. “Do not slay him!” she cried. “It could not have been he. I know it was not he.”
“Silence, girl!” commanded the sheik sternly. “Go to thy quarters and remain there!”
They took Zeyd to his own beyt and bound him securely, and in the mukaad of the sheik the elders sat in judgment while from behind the curtains of the women’s quarters, Ateja listened.
“At dawn, then, he shall be shot!” This was the sentence that Ateja heard passed upon her lover.
Behind his greasy thorrib Fahd smiled a crooked smile. In his black house of hair Zeyd struggled with the bonds that held him, for though he had not heard the sentence he was aware of what his fate would be. In the quarters of the hareem of the Sheik Ibn Jad the sheik’s daughter lay sleepless and suffering. Her long lashes were wet with tears but her grief was silent. Wide-eyed she waited, listening, and presently her patience was rewarded by the sounds of the deep, regular breathing of Ibn Jad and his wife, Hirfa. They slept.
Ateja stirred. Stealthily she raised the lower edge of the tent cloth beside which lay her sleeping mat and rolled quietly beneath it into the mukaad, now deserted. Groping, she found the matchlock of Zeyd where Ibn Jad had left it. She carried also a bundle wrapped in an old thorrib, the contents of which she had gathered earlier in the evening when Hirfa, occupied with her duties, had been temporarily absent from the women’s quarters.
Ateja emerged from the tent of her father and crept cautiously along the single, irregular street formed by the pitched tents of the Arab until she came to the beyt of Zeyd. For a moment she paused at the opening, listening, then she entered softly on sandalled feet.
But Zeyd, sleepless, struggling with his bonds, heard her. “Who comes?” he demanded.
“S‑s‑sh!” cautioned the girl. “It is I, Ateja.” She crept to his side.
“Beloved!” he murmured.
Deftly the girl cut the bonds that held his wrists and ankles. “I have brought thee food and thy musket,” she told him. “These and freedom I give thee—the rest thou must do thyself. Thy mare stands tethered with the others. Far is the beled el-Guad, beset with dangers is the way, but night and day will Ateja pray to Allah to guide thee safely. Haste, my loved one!”
Zeyd pressed her tightly to his breast, kissed her and was gone into the night.
IX
Sir Richard
The floor of the tunnel along which Paul Bodkin conducted Blake inclined ever upwards, and again and again it was broken by flights of steps which carried them always to higher levels. To Blake the way seemed interminable. Even the haunting mystery of the long tunnel failed to overcome the monotony of its unchanging walls that slipped silently into the torch’s dim ken for a brief instant and as silently back into the Cimmerian oblivion behind to make place for more wall unvaryingly identical.
But, as there ever is to all things, there was an end to the tunnel. Blake first glimpsed it in a little patch of distant daylight ahead, and presently he stepped out into the sunlight and looked out across a wide
