“How many men from Hebron?” he demanded.

“Ten.  Well and good.  I have here ten thousand piastres—­one thousand for each of you, or divide it how you like.  That is the price I will pay you to let me go.  What can these other two do to you?  Take the money and run.  Leave me to settle with these others.”

Ben Hamza, knee-deep in the brook, laughed aloud as he eyed the money.  He made a gesture so good-humoured, so full of resignation and regret and broad philosophy that you would have liked the fellow even if he hadn’t saved your life.

“Deal with those two first!” he grinned.  “I would have taken your money long ago, but that I know Jimgrim!  He would have made me give it up again.”

“Jimgrim!” said Abdul Ali.  “Jimgrim?  Are you Major James Grim?  A good thing for you I did not know that, when I had you in my power in the castle!”

Grim laughed.  “Are we all set?  Let’s go.”

We hurried all the faster now because our legs were wet.  The night air on those Moab heights is chilly at any season.  Perhaps, too, we were trying to leave behind us the moat-stench that the water had merely reduced, not washed away.  A quarter of a mile before we reached the place appointed we knew that Anazeh had not failed to keep his tryst.  Away up above us, beside the tomb, like an ancient bearded ghost, Anazeh stood motionless, silent, conning the track we should come by—­a grand old savage keeping faith against his neighbours for the sake of friendship.

He did not challenge when he heard us.  He took aim.  He held his aim until Grim called to him.  When our goat track joined the main road he was there awaiting us, standing like a sentinel in the shadow of a fanged rock.  And there, if, Abdul Ali of Damascus could have had his way, there would have been a fresh debate.  He did not let ten seconds pass before he had offered Anazeh all the money he had with him to lend him a horse and let him go.  Anazeh waived aside the offer.

“You shall have as much more money as you wish!” the Damascene insisted.  “Let me get to my house, and a messenger shall take the money to you.  Or come and get it.”

All the answer Anazeh gave him was a curt laugh—­one bark like a Fox’s.

“Where are all the horses?” Grim demanded.  I could only see five of six.

“I wait for them.”

“Man, we can’t wait!”

“Jimgrim!” said the old sheikh, with a glint of something between malice and amusement in his eyes, “I knew you in the mejlis when you watched me read that letter!  One word from me and—­” He made a click between his teeth suggestive of swift death.  “I let you play your game.  But now I play my game, Allah willing.  I have waited for you.  Wait thou for me!”

“Why?  What is it?”

Anazeh beckoned us and turned away.  We followed him, Grim and I, across the road and up a steep track to the tomb on the overhanging rock, where he had stood when we first saw him.