Elzemah strove to sheathe his poinard in the monk’s bare breast, but the brazier crushed him down.  Across the wide floor raged the contest, but the mighty priest was irresistible.  Hassam, seeing that the priest was fighting toward the balcony, flung himself upon the stairs, crying to his father and his sister to be gone.  By now the castle echoed with a frightful din through which arose a sinister crackling.  The light increased moment by moment, and there came the acrid smell of smoke.

Men left the maniac to give battle to the other fury.  Some fled to the doors and fought with their clumsy fastenings, but as they flung them back a draught sucked through, changing the place into a raging furnace.

With his back against the stairs, Hassam hewed at the monk with his scimitar; he had done as well had he essayed to fell an oak with a single blow.  Up over him rushed the giant, to the balcony above, where Abul Malek and his daughter stood at bay in the trap of their own manufacture.  There, in the glare of the mounting flames, Fray Joseph sank his mighty fingers through the Moor’s black beard.

The place by now was suffocating, and the roar of the conflagration had drowned all other sounds.  Men wrapped their robes about their heads and hurled themselves blindly at the doors, fighting with one another, with the licking flames, with the dead that clogged the slippery flags.  But the maid remained.  She tore at the tattered cassock of the priest, crying into his ear: 

“Come, Joseph!  We may yet escape.”

He let the writhing Abul Malek slip from out his grasp and peered at her through the smother.

“Thou knowest me not?” she queried.  “I am Zahra.”  Her arms entwined his neck for a second time that night, but with a furious cry he raised his hands and smote her down at his feet, then he fled back to the stairs and plunged down into the billows that raged ahead of the fresh night wind.

The bells of San Sebastian were clanging the alarm, the good monks were toiling up the path toward the inferno which lit the heavens, when, black against the glare, they saw a giant figure approaching.  It came reeling toward them, vast, mighty, misshapen.  Not until it was in their very midst did they recognize their brother, Joseph.  He was bent and broken, he was singed of body and of raiment, he gibbered foolishly; he passed them by and went staggering to his cell.  Long ere they reached the castle it was but a seething mountain of flame; and in the morning naught remained of Abul Malek’s house but heated ruins.

Strange tales were rife concerning the end of the Moor and of his immediate kin, but the monks could make little out of them, for they were garbled and too ridiculous for belief.  No Mussulman who survived the fire could speak coherently of what had happened in the great hall, nor could Fray Joseph tell his story, for he lay stricken with a malady which did not leave him for many weeks.  Even when he recovered he did not talk; for although his mind was clear on most matters, nay, although he was as simple and as devout as ever, a kind Providence had blotted out all memory of Zahra, of his sin, and of the temptation that had beset his flesh.