was not in its accustomed place, nor anywhere else, though she searched the rooms thoroughly.
The ancient sword which had been across the dead Ameer's knees during the funeral procession!
The sword with which Aziza Nurmahal had enforced her will when Koom Khan had spoken mutinous words!
The sword which, according to the tradition of the Gengizkhani family, would mate with the other blade, the one which Hector Wade had found in the lumber room of Dealle Castle and which had been the cause of all his twisted, motley adventures!
The sword with which even at that moment Aziza Nurmahal was defending herself, stabbing and cutting until her slim arms ached and her breath came in short, staccato bursts, while the Afghan charpadar, who, with a great, bellowing laugh, had declared himself to be Abderrahman Yahiah Khan, governor of the western marches—“and soon thy husband, little princess, soon the father of thy sons, soon Ameer of Tamerlanistan!”—kept dancing away from her, catching blows and thrusts on his metal-bossed arm shield, without using his own weapon.
“For I do not wish to injure thee, O Moon of Delight! And soon thou wilt be tired with this dancing about and unwomanly wielding of steel. And then I shall gather thee in my arms and carry thee away, and—ahee!—but thou shalt find my love strong and I thine sweet!”
Abderrahman Yahiah Khan had no thought for Mahsud Hakki, the eunuch, whom he had cut down as soon as they had entered the mausoleum. The man
