HEN the middle of the morning came, and a captain of janizaries flung open the door of the prison, Michael walked forth steadily. He kept his head back, and by an effort of will stiffened his knees against trembling. Hunger, that had been an agony, left him and he did not feel weak; but, coming out into the glare of sunlight on the uppermost terrace, just under the castle wall, he was conscious of sweat starting out all over his limbs.
In the center of the terrace the blunt end of a ten-foot stake had been sunk into the earth at an angle, leaving the sharpened end projecting along the surface of the grass. Near at hand, slaves held the bridles of two Arab ponies, while others attached ropes to the breast-strap.
About this cleared space the guests of the night before sat on carpets in the shade of olive and lemon-trees; officers of the guard strolled around, swaggering, some with hawks on their wrists, for the latticed windows of the palace hid the women of Sidi Ahmad—soft-limbed girls of many races whose lustrous eyes would brighten at the spectacle of the torture.
Here and there negroes placed trays of sherbet and sweetmeats before the watchers, and Michael heard voices crying wagers—how long would he endure before crying out. Beyond the low line of foliage, he beheld again the white minarets, the gold and purple domes of the Moslem city, and, like an echo upon the breeze came the faint cry of the caller-to-prayer:
A drone, as of multitudinous bees, arose from the streets below, where hundreds of worshippers were facing toward Mecca.
The spectators on the terrace arose and salaamed. The bird-like man—who acted the part of Sidi Ahmad—had appeared in the shadows under the trees, and with him Demid. The Cossack left his host and strolled over to inspect the stake and the horses. Michael’s gaze flew to him and lingered, while, absently, he noticed that Demid wore two swords, his own and the simitar of honor bestowed by the master of the feast the evening before.
This struck Michael as strangely ridiculous.
“Two swords—and one man—one sword too many, i’faith!”
He wagged his head, and a chuckle arose in his throat. The guards looked at him askance, and a mameluke, in a fur-tipped khalat strolled over to stare his fill at the victim of the maut ahmar.
“A comely dog,” the dark-faced warrior from Egypt muttered, caressing a gold chain at his throat, “but too lean in the limb—his bones will crack like a chicken’s. I have seen”
He confided, low-voiced, to one of the Turks what he had seen in the way of torture visited upon other Nazarenes. Michael’s voice croaked.
“Yah khawand, a word with yonder noble, El Kadhr. I who go to the Severer of Life ask it.”
“Will you confess the hiding-place of the pig kazaks?"
Michael shook his head, not caring to trust his voice again. He wished to warn Demid that Balaban was in Aleppo and that Balaban was Sidi Ahmad; but when be took an uncertain step forward toward his friend, nausea seized on him.
“Wine!” he whispered. “A cup of wine before the ordeal.”
“To hear is to obey!”
The janizary whispered something to one of the palace slaves, who presently fetched a silver goblet from the courtyard. Michael seized it and raised it to his lips with a hand kept steady by the utmost effort of his will.
Within the cup was vinegar.
Michael quivered and hurled the silver goblet at the Moslem who had tricked him, and the mameluke smiled, beholding his musk-scented companion soaked with the vinegar.
“Eh, there is a devil in this prince of unbelievers! Nay—” as the other, red with rage, strove to draw sword—“this Frank is to be spared for the fate that awaits his kind.”
Perceiving the attention of the throng on him for a second, the warrior of the khalat made a mock salaam before Michael.
“I pray your honor’s honor to ascend the throne prepared for you. Ho, Moslems, give heed to this dog-coronation!”
A ripple of mirth passed over the savage faces, and merciless eyes fastened on the prisoner. Pleased with his own wit, the mameluke leaned forward to pull the stubble of beard that had grown on Michael’s chin.
“Will you go forward to the stake, or shall I bid the palace wenches hither to whip you on?”
For a second the thought of angering the soldier—provoking him to use his sword—came to Michael. But then he was aware that by going to the stake he might speak to Demid, who had recognized him before now.
Michael crossed himself, and, followed closely by a janizary and the mameluke, walked up to the stake. Now he saw that Demid’s face was tense, and that the Cossack’s eyes were smoldering even while he stood with folded arms.