“Go on,” she said imperiously.

Down he went, and after him she came, following the way he led her down the long stone underground ways.

“We have, of course, very pleasant stairs down to our water gate,” he murmured apologetically, “but since you prefer this way—­really not the way that I would have chosen to have you first explore your palace, madame!  These, you perceive, are the cellars and old storerooms—­”

“I do not want you to talk,” she said urgently.

“But you would not shoot me for it?  Only for raising an alarm?  And surely you cannot be unreasonable about a few words—­you must be very careful, here, this doorway is low—­”

It was not past the old ruined mosque, included in the palace’s underground world, that he was leading her, but down a narrow branching way, between walls so low that the general’s head was bowed in caution.

“This part of the palace is very old,” he murmured, over his shoulder.  “An ancestor of mine, Sharyar the Wazir, raised these walls during the wars—­for the dispensing of that sacred duty of hospitality which Allah enjoins upon the faithful.  It is reported that he was host here to fifty of the enemy during their remaining lifetime—­although they had the delicacy not to cumber him with overlong living.  It is not, as I said, a pleasant place, but the walls are strong and so I selected a spot here—­”

Here, somewhere, then, in these grim ruins, Ryder was penned, helpless and questioning the to-morrow.  The girl trembled with excitement when she thought of his joy, his deliverance—­and at her hands.  For their escape she had no plans, only the decision to thrust the gun into his hands and follow him unquestioningly ...  Perhaps they could leave the general in his place and he could wear the general’s uniform for disguise....

Everything was possible now that she was nearing him and his safety was at hand.  She thrilled with a reanimating excitement that flew its scarlet banners in her cheeks ...  Only a few steps now....

“Go on,” she said breathlessly.

The bey had stopped and now flashed his lantern over a low, timbered door, studded with ancient nail heads in a design whose artistry did not arrest her.  From a peg beside it he took down a key of brass, fitted it to the lock and turned it with a deliberation maddening to her tense nerves.

Her heart was beating as if it would burst its bounds.  Only a moment or two—­

He had trouble with that door.  It took his shoulder; at last he set it swinging inward slowly on its creaking hinges.  Then he stepped back and with a wave of his hand invited her to enter.

“Not a chamber of luxury, you understand, but substantial, as you will see—­”

“Go first,” she ordered.

He laughed.  “Ever distrustful, little thorn-of-the-rose!  Follow, then,” and he stepped within, into the darkness, which his failing lantern but little illumined, calling out in a louder tone in his halting English, “A visitor, my friend.  A tourist of the subterranean.”