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“It is the pilgrim’s road. You face the kibleh!” one called to Shems-ud-dìn. “Allah hold you in safe keeping!”

Shems-ud-dìn rode beside Milhem at the head of his retinue. Their way led straight across the brown waste—a track a mile wide marked by the horde of pilgrims wending yearly to Mekka. Here and there, upon the sky line, rose a wave of faint blue mountain. The sun shone hot on their left cheeks.

Milhem was in high spirits. Ever and anon he turned in the saddle to gaze with pride upon his suite, who rode at ease, smoking cigarettes, talking and laughing lightly together.

“Art thou happy?” asked Shems-ud-dìn.

“Very happy. Praise be to Allah who has freed my hand at last. I have not known such elation since the day when the Muscovites fled from before Silistria.”

“Silistria! Wast thou really there? I have not heard thee speak of it. The story, I beseech thee.”

“I speak but of the joy felt by all believers when the place was relieved. I was not of the heroes.”

“But thou thyself hast done brave deeds, O my brother?”