Whether the sudden disturbance rattled him, or whether he supposed that all the other truculent ruffians were going to try to follow our example, at any rate the man on duty lost his head and shouted to his men to shut the gate again.  Before they could do it every one of Anazeh’s gang had forced his way through.  There we all were on forbidden ground, with a great iron-studded gate slammed and bolted behind us.  To judge by the row outside the keepers of the gate had got their hands full.

In front of us was a short flight of stone steps, and another great wooden door set in stone posts under a Roman arch.  There were only two armed men leaning against it.  They eyed Anazeh and our numbers nervously.

“Open!”

Anazeh could use his voice like a whip-crack.  They fumbled with the great bolt and obeyed, swinging the door wide.  I thought for a minute that my arrogant old protector meant to ride up the steps and through the door into the mejlis hall with all his men; but he was not quite so high-handed as that.

After a good long look through the door, I suppose to make sure there was no ambush inside waiting for him, he dismounted, and ordered his men to occupy a stable-building across the courtyard, from which it would have been impossible to dislodge them without a siege.  Then, when he had seen the last man disappear into it, he led me and Mahommed ben Hamza up the steps.

Ben Hamza was grinning like a schoolboy, beside himself with delight at the prospect of elbowing among notables, as well as inordinately proud of his new clothes and the smell of imported soap that hung about him like an aura.  But Anazeh looked like an ancient king entering into his own.  Surely there was never another man who could stride so majestically and seem so conscious of his own ability to override all law.

We passed under the shadowy arch and down a cool stone passage to yet another heavy door that barred our way.  Anazeh thundered on it with his rifle-butt, for there were no attendants there to do his bidding.  There was no answer.  Only a murmur of voices within.  So he thundered again, and this time the door opened about six inches.  A face peered through the opening cautiously, and asked what was wanted.

“What is this?” asked Anazeh.  “Is a mejlis held without my presence?  Since when?”

“You are too late!”

The face disappeared.  Some one tried to close the door.  Anazeh’s foot prevented.

“Open!” he demanded.  The butt of his rifle thundered again on the wood.

There was a babel of voices inside, followed by sudden silence.  Anazeh made a sign to Mahommed ben Hamza and me.  We all three laid our shoulders against the door and shoved hard.  Evidently that was not expected; it swung back so suddenly that we were hard put to it to keep our feet.  The man who had opened the door lay prone on the floor in front of us with his legs in the air, and Anazeh laughed at him—­the bitterest sign of disrespect one Arab can pay to another.