Yar Ali's eyes were blazing, and he gazed, not at the gem, but
at the sullen stone walls. "We are flies in the lair of the spider! _Sahib_, as Allah lives, it is more than the ghosts of old fears that
lurk over this city of horror! I feel the presence of peril, as I have
felt it before--as I felt it in a jungle cavern where a python lurked
unseen in the darkness--as I felt it in the temple of Thuggee where the
hidden stranglers of Siva crouched to spring upon us--as I feel it
now, tenfold!" Steve's hair prickled. He knew that Yar Ali was a grim veteran, not to
be stampeded by silly fear or senseless panic; he well remembered the
incidents referred to by the Afghan, as he remembered other occasions
upon which Yar Ali's Oriental telepathic instinct had warned him of
danger before that danger was seen or heard. "What is it, Yar Ali?" he whispered. The Afghan shook his head, his eyes filled with a weird mysterious
light as he listened to the dim occult promptings of his
subconsciousness. "I know not; I know it is close to us, and that it is very ancient and
very evil. I think----" Suddenly he halted and wheeled, the eery light
vanishing from his eyes to be replaced by a glare of wolf-like fear and
suspicion. "Hark, _sahib_!" he snapped. "Ghosts or dead men mount the stair!" Steve stiffened as the stealthy pad of soft sandals on stone reached
his ear. "By Judas, Ali!" he rapped; "something's out there----"

The ancient walls re-echoed to a chorus of wild yells as a horde of
savage figures flooded the chamber. For one dazed insane instant Steve
believed wildly that they were being attacked by re-embodied warriors
of a vanished age; then the spiteful crack of a bullet past his ear
and the acrid smell of powder told him that their foes were material
enough. Clarney cursed; in their fancied security they had been caught
like rats in a trap by the pursuing Arabs. *       *       *       *       *

Even as the American threw up his rifle, Yar Ali fired point-blank
from the hip with deadly effect, hurled his empty rifle into the horde
and went down the steps like a hurricane, his three-foot Khyber knife
shimmering in his hairy hand. Into his gusto for battle went real
relief that his foes were human. A bullet ripped the turban from his
head, but an Arab went down with a split skull beneath the hillman's
first, shearing stroke. A tall Bedouin clapped his gun-muzzle to the Afghan's side, but before
he could pull the trigger, Clarney's bullet scattered his brains. The very number of the attackers hindered their onslaught on the
big Afridi, whose tigerish quickness made shooting as dangerous to
themselves as to him. The bulk of them swarmed about him, striking with
simitar and rifle-stock while others charged up the steps after Steve. At that range there was no missing; the American simply thrust his
rifle muzzle into a bearded face and blasted it into a ghastly ruin. The others came on, screaming like panthers. And now as he prepared to expend his last cartridge, Clarney saw two
things in one flashing instant--a wild warrior who, with froth on his
beard and a heavy simitar uplifted, was almost upon him, and another
who knelt on the floor drawing a careful bead on the plunging Yar
Ali. Steve made an instant choice and fired over the shoulder of the
charging swordsman, killing the rifleman--and voluntarily offering his
own life for his friend's; for the simitar was swinging at his own
head. But even as the Arab swung, grunting with the force of the blow,
his sandaled foot slipped on the marble steps and the curved blade,
veering erratically from its arc, clashed on Steve's rifle-barrel. In
an instant the American clubbed his rifle, and as the Bedouin recovered
his balance and again heaved up the simitar, Clarney struck with all
his rangy power, and stock and skull shattered together. Then a heavy ball smacked into his shoulder, sickening him with the
shock. As he staggered dizzily, a Bedouin whipped a turban-cloth about his
feet and jerked viciously. Clarney pitched headlong down the steps, to
strike with stunning force. A gun-stock in a brown hand went up to dash
out his brains, but an imperious command halted the blow. "Slay him not, but bind him hand and foot." As Steve struggled dazedly against many gripping hands, it seemed to
him that somewhere he had heard that imperious voice before. *       *       *       *       *

The American's downfall had occurred in a matter of seconds. Even as
Steve's second shot had cracked, Yar Ali had half severed a raider's
arm and himself received a numbing blow from a rifle-stock on his left
shoulder. His sheep-skin coat, worn despite the desert heat, saved his
hide from half a dozen slashing knives. A rifle was discharged so close
to his face that the powder burnt him fiercely, bringing a bloodthirsty
yell from the maddened Afghan. As Yar Ali swung up his dripping blade
the rifleman, ashy-faced, lifted his rifle above his head in both
hands to parry the downward blow, whereat the Afridi, with a yelp of
ferocious exultation, shifted as a jungle-cat strikes and plunged his
long knife into the Arab's belly. But at that instant a rifle-stock,
swung with all the hearty ill-will its wielder could evoke, crashed
against the giant's head, laying open the scalp and dashing him to his
knees. With the dogged and silent ferocity of his breed, Yar Ali staggered
blindly up again, slashing at foes he could scarcely see, but a storm
of blows battered him down again, nor did his attackers cease beating
him until he lay still. They would have finished him in short order
then, but for another peremptory order from their chief; whereupon they
bound the senseless knife-man and flung him down alongside Steve, who
was fully conscious and aware of the savage hurt of the bullet in his
shoulder. He glared up at the tall Arab who stood looking down at him. "Well, _sahib_," said this one--and Steve saw he was no Bedouin--"do
you not remember me?" Steve scowled; a bullet wound is no aid to concentration. "You look familiar--by Judas!--you are! Nureddin El Mekru!" "I am honored! The _sahib_ remembers!" Nureddin salaamed mockingly. "And you remember, no doubt, the occasion on which you made me a
present of--this?" The dark eyes shadowed with bitter menace and the shaykh indicated a
thin white scar on the angle of his jaw. "I remember," snarled Clarney, whom pain and anger did not tend to make
docile. "It was in Somaliland, years ago. You were in the slave-trade
then. A wretch of a nigger escaped from you and took refuge with me. You walked into my camp one night in your high-handed way, started a
row and in the ensuing scrap you got a butcher-knife across your face. I wish I'd cut your lousy throat." "You had your chance," answered the Arab. "Now the tables are turned." "I thought your stamping-ground lay west," growled Clarney; "Yemen and
the Somali country." "I quit the slave-trade long ago," answered the shaykh. "It is an
outworn game.