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“By thy leave,” broke in Hassan, “the morning calls us. At noon or in the evening we can tell our stories. Come forth now, and let me show thee this place of dogs.”

No sooner did they leave the house, than men emerged from adjacent dwellings and walked with them till, ere they had traversed half the town, they headed a multitude. Hassan led the way by foul and narrow alleys to the open hill where stood the remains of great buildings, whose smooth pillars and finely wrought capitals contrasted the rudeness of the modern stonework.

“These are the work of the jinn,” said a voice from the crowd. “The devils still hold festival here of nights when there is no moon.”

Here in the arena of a ruined amphitheater Milhem’s tent was pitched. Around it half-dressed soldiers were grooming their horses to the entertainment of a swarm of noisy children. Hassan went forward to the tent; Shems-ud-dìn, in enjoyment of the morning sun, sat down upon a fallen column with his face to the blaze.

The flat mud roofs of the town formed a succession of terrace steps beneath him, descending to a stony wady, beyond which swelled the wilderness of barren rocks. A patch of verdure by the town spring, a few olive trees down in the ravine, a few poor fig trees among the ruins near to where he sat—all else was bronze and purple of the desert hills.