“It was none other.  He loves him as his own son, as do I. Amzi would suffer death willingly, Yusuf would suffer death willingly, would it spare that poor, confiding innocent!”

The priest’s eyes were flashing, and his tones bore witness to his earnestness.  He did not notice, nor did Asru, a pair of bright eyes that peered at him from the chink of the doorway; he did not know that a face full of petty, vindictive spite was partially hidden by the darkness without, or that two keen ears were listening to every word he said.

“Yusuf,” returned the captain in a low tone, “you are the only man who has ever seemed to me good.  Your words, at least, are ever truth.  You wonder, then, that I follow the prophet?  Simply because the excitement of war suits me, and”—­he shrugged his shoulders with a laugh—­“it is the best policy to be on the winning side.  Most of these crazed idiots believe in him, and fear that he will work enchantments upon them if they do not; but the doctrine of the sword and of plunder goes farther with a few, of whom Asru is one.  Because I believe in you, Yusuf, I shall try to carry out your request.  But it would cost me my life were it found out, so it must be seemingly by chance.  Rest assured that, bad as I am, cruel as I am, I shall see that Yusuf’s friends have some ‘accidental’ way of escape.”

So spoke Asru, nor knew that a pair of feet were hurrying and shuffling towards the prophet, while a soldier kept guard at the door.

“May heaven bless you for this!” cried the priest.  “So long as Amzi and Yusuf breathe you shall not lack an earthly friend.”

“Tush!” exclaimed the captain. “’Tis but the wish to make old scores even.  You serve me; I serve you.  We are even.”

“Then I shall leave you,” said Yusuf, rising with a smile.

Asru opened the door.

“Hold!” cried a guard.  “By order of the prophet, Asru is my prisoner!”

“Wherefore?” cried Asru, attempting to seize his dagger.

“Because, though it is politic to be on the winning side, it is not always safe to be a traitor and to countermand Mohammed’s orders,” replied the prophet’s musical voice, as the soldiers gave way to permit his advance.

Asru freed himself and dashed forward, wielding his dagger right and left, but it was a rash effort.  He was instantly overpowered and bound hand and foot.  The priest shared the same fate.

The prophet looked down upon the captain.  “Asru,” he said, “you whom I deemed a most faithful one, you who have proved false, know that death is the meed of a traitor.  Yet that you may know Mohammed can show mercy, I give you your life.  For the sake of your past services I grant it you, and trust that, having learned obedience and humility, you may once again grace our battle-fields nobly.  Guards, chain him, yet see that he is kept in easy confinement and lacks nothing.  Send me Uzza.”

The Oman Arab came forward.  He was a dark-browed man, under-sized, and with one shoulder higher than the other.  His eyes were long and narrow, with a look of extreme cunning about them, and his mouth was cruel, his lips being pressed together so tightly that they looked like a long white line.