follow the prophet? Simply because the excitement
of war suits me, and"--he shrugged his shoulders with a laugh--"it is
the best policy to be on the winning side. Most of these crazed idiots
believe in him, and fear that he will work enchantments upon them if
they do not; but the doctrine of the sword and of plunder goes farther
with a few, of whom Asru is one. Because I believe in you, Yusuf, I
shall try to carry out your request. But it would cost me my life were
it found out, so it must be seemingly by chance. Rest assured that, bad
as I am, cruel as I am, I shall see that Yusuf's friends have some
'accidental' way of escape."

So spoke Asru, nor knew that a pair of feet were hurrying and shuffling
towards the prophet, while a soldier kept guard at the door.

"May heaven bless you for this!" cried the priest. "So long as Amzi and
Yusuf breathe you shall not lack an earthly friend."

"Tush!" exclaimed the captain. "'Tis but the wish to make old scores
even. You serve me; I serve you. We are even."

"Then I shall leave you," said Yusuf, rising with a smile.

Asru opened the door.

"Hold!" cried a guard. "By order of the prophet, Asru is my prisoner!"

"Wherefore?" cried Asru, attempting to seize his dagger.

"Because, though it is politic to be on the winning side, it is not
always safe to be a traitor and to countermand Mohammed's orders,"
replied the prophet's musical voice, as the soldiers gave way to permit
his advance.

Asru freed himself and dashed forward, wielding his dagger right and
left, but it was a rash effort. He was instantly overpowered and bound
hand and foot. The priest shared the same fate.

The prophet looked down upon the captain. "Asru," he said, "you whom I
deemed a most faithful one, you who have proved false, know that death
is the meed of a traitor. Yet that you may know Mohammed can show mercy,
I give you your life. For the sake of your past services I grant it you,
and trust that, having learned obedience and humility, you may once
again grace our battle-fields nobly. Guards, chain him, yet see that he
is kept in easy confinement and lacks nothing. Send me Uzza."

The Oman Arab came forward. He was a dark-browed man, under-sized, and
with one shoulder higher than the other. His eyes were long and narrow,
with a look of extreme cunning about them, and his mouth was cruel, his
lips being pressed together so tightly that they looked like a long
white line.

"Upon you, Uzza, O fait