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“A Sufi, I suppose?” said Sir Dugald.

“No; he is the head of a sect of his own—the remnant of some organisation which was very powerful at the time of the Crusades, I believe. Even now he seems to have adherents all over Asia, and several times he has given us valuable information. But Wilayat Ali swears that he is perpetually intriguing against him, and so the Government have rewarded him rather scurvily—forbidden him to quit Khemistan. The poor man laid it so much to heart that he took a vow never to leave his house again as long as the sun shone upon the earth.”

“Then he is a state prisoner somewhere? Is he down at the coast?”

“No, he has furbished up a ruined fort which he found in the mountains, and calls it Sheikhgarh. He has an allowance from us, and he could range all over the province if he liked. It is only his vow that prevents him, and, curiously enough, I have reason to know that it’s not as alarming as it sounds.”

“Why, have you ever seen him?”

“I have, and I have not. I met him out in the desert one night—saw a troop of men riding, and challenged them. When he heard who I was, he came forward to explain that for a person of such sanctity it was easy to dispense himself partially from his vow—so as to let him take his rides abroad at night. He was muffled up to the eyes, and it was dark, besides, so I can’t say I saw him, but I liked his voice. I told him he need fear no molestation from me, that I considered both he and Nasr Ali had been treated scandalously, and that I was on his side if the Government troubled him any more.”