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So it happened that Shems-ud-dìn and his servant supped and slept that night in the house of a wild brigand, whose talk reeked of gore. And when he awoke in the morning, there was Hassan watching him from the arched doorway, where he stood polishing a long-barreled gun with a piece of goatskin. They smiled the one to the other.

“Watching thee asleep, I have found out why thou didst overcome me yesterday—me, the pupil of the mighty Shamil; thou, a peaceful doctor of religion. It is because thou art a saint!” said Hassan Agha.

“Allah witness I am the least saintlike of men,” said Shems-ud-dìn, yawning to fuller consciousness. But Hassan would have it that he was a saint.

“I go presently to see thy brother,” he added after awhile. “We need horses if we are to fight the Bedû. He is a devil, that brother of thine. I expect he will help us with some stratagem.... By Allah, it is a thankless task, protecting these tillers of the rock. They have been wont to pay to the chiefs of the desert a tribute, by virtue of which they were unmolested. Now they scowl on us because we forbid all tribute save to the officers of our lord the Padishah—that is, ourselves. As yet we have not seen one Bedawi. The whole nation, they say, is far away in the east at this season. They come not here before the first rain. But these fellahìn are great liars. They told us there was a forest close at hand, but when we looked, behold! a few old terebinths scattered over as many hills. They told me there were tigers, but after hunting the region near and far, I brought back but one lean partridge, some conies, some pigeons, and an owl or so. There are no tigers. Perhaps there are no Bedû either.”