I answered pretty tactfully.  I said that Allah had undoubtedly created him to be a protector of helpless wayfarers and the very guardian of honour.  Mahommed ben Hamza added to the compliments while rendering mine into Arabic.  But though Anazeh’s wrath was somewhat mollified, he was not satisfied by any means.

“Am I a dog,” he demanded, “that I should be slighted for the sake of that Damascene?”

It looked to me like the proper moment to try out Grim’s magic formula.

“You are the father of lions.  And a lion knows a lion in the dark!” said I.

The effect was instantaneous.  He puffed his cheeks out in astonishment, and sucked them in again.  The overbearing anger vanished as he leaned forward in the saddle to scrutinize my face.  It was clear that he thought my use of that phrase might just possibly have been an accident.

“Jimgrim says—­”

“Ah!  What says Jimgrim?  Who are you that know where he is?”

“A lion knows a lion in the dark!” I said again, that there might be no mistake about my having used the words deliberately.

He nodded.

“Praised be Allah!  Blessings upon His Prophet!  What says Jimgrim?”

“Jimgrim says I am to keep by Anazeh and watch him, lest he drink strong drink and lose his honour by becoming like a beast without decency or understanding!”

“Mount your horse, effendi.  Sit beside me.”

I complied.  Ben Hamza took the place of Ahmed, who went to the rear looking rather pleased to get out of the limelight.

“What else says Jimgrim?” asked Anazeh.

“There will be a message presently, providing Sheikh Anazeh keeps sober!”

To say that I was enjoying the game by this time is like trying to paint heaven with a tar-brush.  You’ve got to be on the inside of an intrigue before you can appreciate the thrill of it.  Nobody who has not had the chance to mystify a leader of cheerful murderers in a city packed with conspirators, with the shadow of a vulture on the road in front, and fanged death waiting to be let loose, need talk to me of excitement.

“Well and good,” said Anazeh.  “When Jimgrim speaks, I listen!”

Can you beat that?  Have you ever dreamed you were possessed of some magic formula like “Open Sesame,” and free to work with it any miracle you choose?  Was the dream good?  I was awake—­on a horse—­in a real eastern alley—­with twenty thieves as picturesque as Ali Baba’s, itching for action behind me!

“Abdul Ali of Damascus thinks he will enter the mejlis last and create a great sensation,” said Anazeh.  “That son of infamies deceives himself.  I shall enter last.  I shall bring you.  There will be no doubt who is important!”

Just as he spoke there clattered down the street at right angles to us a regular cavalcade of horsemen led by no less than Abdul Ali with a sycophant on either hand.  Cardinal Wolsey, or some other wisehead, once remarked that a king is known by the splendour of his servants.  Abdul Ali’s parasites were dressed for their part in rose-coloured silk and mounted on beautiful white Arab horses so severely bitted that they could not help but prance.