There were five good hindrances, for I think that Rustum Khan would have objected to that cruelty, even had he been alone.  Kagig caught Monty’s eye and laughed.

“Korkakma!” he jeered.  “Do not be afraid!” Then be glanced swiftly at the Turks, and at Peter Measel, who was staring all-eyes at Maga on the far side of the room.

“Order your pigs of zaptieh to throw their arms down!”

Instead, the German shouted to them to fire volleys at us.  He was not without a certain stormy courage, whatever Kagig’s knowledge of his treachery.

But the Turks did not fire, and it was perfectly plain that we four were the reason of it.  They had been promised an easy prey—­captured women—­loot—­and the remunerative task of escorting us to safety.  Doubtless Von Quedlinburg had promised them our consul would be lavish with rewards on our account.  Therefore there was added reason why they should not fire on Englishmen and an American.  We had not made a move since the first scuffle when we rescued Maga, but the Turkish lieutenant had taken our measure.  Perhaps he had whispered to his men.  Perhaps they reached their own conclusions.  The effect was the same in either case.

“Order them to throw their weapons down!” commanded Kagig, kicking the German in the ribs.  And his coat had been so scorched in the fierce heat that the whole of one side of it broke off, like a cinder slab.

This time Hans von Quedlinburg obeyed.  For one thing the pain of his burns was beginning to tell on him, but he could see, too, that he had lost prestige with his party.

“Throw down your weapons!” he ordered savagely.

But he had lost more prestige than he knew, or else he had less in the beginning than be counted on.  The Turkish lieutenant—­a man of about forty with the evidence of all the sensual appetites very plainly marked on his face—­laughed and brought his men to attention.  Then he made a kind of half-military motion with his hand toward each of us in turn, ignoring Kagig but intending to convey that we at any rate need not feel anxious.

It was Maga Jhaere who solved the riddle of that impasse.  She was hardly in condition to appear before a crowd of men, for the Turks bad torn off most of her clothes, and she had not troubled to find others.  She was unashamed, and as beautiful and angry as a panther.  With panther suddenness she snatched the lieutenant’s sword and pistol.

It suited neither his national pride nor religious prejudices to be disarmed by a gipsy woman; but the Turk is an amazing fatalist, and unexpectedness is his peculiar quality.

“Che arz kunam?” he muttered—­the perennial comment of the Turk who has failed, that always made Kagig bare his teeth in a spasm of contempt.  “Passing the buck to Allah,” as Will construed it.

But disarming the mere conscript soldiers was not quite so simple, although Maga managed it.  They had less regard for their own skins than handicapped their officer, and yet more than his contempt for the female of any human breed.