Here he encountered Katrina and a guard of five black soldiers who were helping her flight.  “We are safe,” she whispered—­“they’ve gone back into the Feddan—­come;” and by the light of a lamp which she carried she made for the winding corridor that led past the bath and the sanctuary to the Kasbah gate.  But Ben Aboo only cursed her, and fumbled at the low door of the passage that went out from the alcove to the alley.  He was lumbering through with his armless roll, intending to clash the door back in Katrina’s face, when there was a fierce shout behind him, and for some minutes Ben Aboo knew no more.

The shout was Ali’s.  After leaving the Mahdi on the heath outside the Bab Toot, the black lad had hunted for the Basha.  When the Spanish soldiers abandoned the Kasbah he continued his search.  Up and down he had traversed the place in the darkness; and finding Ben Aboo at last, on the spot where he had first seen him, he rushed in upon him and brought him to the ground.  Seeing Ben Aboo down, the black soldiers fell upon Ali.  The brave lad died with a shout of triumph.  “Israel ben Oliel,” he cried, as if he thought that name enough to save his soul and damn the soul of Ben Aboo.

But Ben Aboo was not yet done with his own.  The blow that had been aimed at his heart had no more than grazed his shoulder.  “Get up,” whispered Katrina, half in wrath; and while she stooped to look for his wounds, her face and hands as seen in the dim light of the lantern were bedaubed with his blood.  At that moment the guards were crying that the Kasbah was afire, and at the next they were gone, leaving Katrina alone with the unconscious man.  “Get up,” she cried again, and tugging at Ben Aboo’s unconscious body she struck it in her terror and frenzy.  It was every one for himself in that bad hour.  Katrina followed the guards, and was never afterwards heard of.

When Ben Aboo came to himself the patio was aglow with flames.  He staggered to his feet, still grappling to his breast the money-bags hidden under his selham.  Then, bleeding from his shoulder and with blood upon his beard, he made afresh for the passage leading to the back alley.  The passage was narrow and dark.  There were three winding steps at the end of it.  Ben Aboo was dizzy and he stumbled.

But the passage was silent, it was safe, and out in the alley a sea of voices burst upon him.  He could hear the tramp of countless footsteps, the cries of multitudes of voices, and the rattle of flintlocks.  Lanterns, torches, flares and flashes of gunpowder came and went at both ends of the long dark tunnel.  In the light of these he saw a struggling current of angry faces.  The living sea encircled him.  He knew what had happened.  At the first certainty that his power was gone and that there was nothing to fear from his vengeance, his own people had gathered together to destroy him.