“AS THE SANDS OF THE THIRD HOUR SINK IN
THE GLASS—THE DEAD SHALL ARISE.”

Arising in tongues of fire, from the floor of
stone, a flame of crackling wood, cast its ruddy
glare around the Cavern of the Dead, flinging
vivid glimpses of blood-red light along the earth-hidden
roof, and imparting a strange appearance
of warmth and life, to the circling figures, scattered
along the pavement of the vault.

Turned to burning red by the full glare of the
flame, the gigantic Figure of Stone, arising above
the Mound of Death, seemed starting into life, as
with arms thrown wildly aloft, and downcast eyes,
it gazed upon the strange spectacle, extended at
the foot of the mound. Ascending from the cavern
floor, a square tent, for by that name alone it

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

may be designated, formed of hanging curtains of
jet-black leather, gave three of its sides to the glare
of the flame, while the fourth was wrapt in shadow.
The hangings of black leather, were inscribed
with strange and contrasted characters,
fashioned in shapes of glittering gold, while from
the aperture at the top, where the roof of the tent
should have been placed, there arose, in dark and
murky folds, thick columns of lurid smoke, winding
upward to the far-off ceiling of the cavern.

Near the tent of embroidered leather, arose a
small, square and compact structure of ebony, in
shape resembling a small table, designed to serve
the purposes of an altar. On the top of the altar
of ebony was laid an hour glass, standing between
a funeral urn, and a phial of glittering silver,
placed beside a massive volume of time-eaten
parchments, with an unbound scroll, falling to the
very floor of the cavern.

Within the compass of a fathom's length from
the tent of leather, was erected the fire of massive
oaken wood which threw its ruddy glare around
the spot, and flung vivid though flickering glimpses
of light along the distant recesses of the cavern.

And there in that lone cavern, beneath the
frown of the Demon-Form, with the ruddy blaze
of the oaken fire, disclosing their faces and figures
in bold and strong relief, there, while the hours of
that fearful night, dragged heavily on, watched
and waited Aldarin and Ibrahim the [2]Son of the
Kings.

Ibrahim, calm, solemn and erect, stood beside
the Altar of Ebony, his sable attire, his dark hued
face, with the grey hair, the white eye-brows and
the flowing beard disclosed in the light, while he
gazed in wonder and awe around the immensity
of that cavern, where the last and most terrible
scene in the Mortal Life of Aldarin, was to add
another legend of horror to the teeming Archives
of Albarone. With slow and measured steps,
Aldarin paced the pavement of the cavern, extending
in front of the sable tent, while the light of
the flame revealed his face, pale and colorless,
stamped with an expression, calm and immovable
it is true, yet fraught with strange and mysterious
meaning.

“It is a dark and gloomy place—dost not think
so Ibrahim?” exclaimed the Scholar advancing
to the side of the Arab-Prince. “Look around!
Behold the flashes of flame-light falling along the
floor of the dread cavern, giving a lurid glare to
the ceiling as it arises above our heads, like an
earth-hidden sky, or casting their ruddy glare over
the face and form of yon dark figure of giant
rock. Is't not a dark and gloomy place, Ibrahim?”

“Here, along this gloomy cavern, might the
warrior of a thousand battles walk and tremble as
he walked, without the blush of shame for his
coward fear. As I gaze around upon the dark
mysteries of this funereal vault, methinks I behold
the demons of the unreal world, clustering around
me, laughing in my face, or mocking my very soul
with their gestures of scorn!”

“Here will the last scene in the Mortal Life of
Aldarin, startle the very gaze of yon dark dread
face of stone. Tell me Ibrahim, how long hast
waited in this solemn vault.”

“Twice have I turned your hour glass since
first we entered the cavern—it wanes toward the
third hour after midnight.”

“Thou hast not asked me any question concerning
these dark hangings of embroidered leather.
Thou hast not asked me why yon dark and
lurid smoke wends upward from the confines of
this sable tent. Nor hast thou spoken a word
in relation to the secrets of this Tabernacle of
Life—so the Book calls the sable tent.”

“Ibrahim has waited the pleasure of Aldarin.”

“Then listen, dark Arabian, when I tell thee—
the dead, the mighty dead shall live again!”

“These words are mysteries to me!”

“Read yon mystic scroll, Ibrahim, and all shall
be as the light of day to thee—read those words
of fearful knowledge.

And with a whispered and trembling voice, the
Arabian gave to the air of the Cavern, the dark
and mysterious words of the scroll:

“Lo! The Waters of Life are free from
stain or pollution of earth. Wouldst thou prove
them pure? Within the hollow of the coffin-like
vessel of iron, place the remains of the Sacrificed
and pile the fire of beechen wood around. When
the iron pales from red to white, then warm the
Heart of the Sacrificed with the white waters of
the Alembic—when the heart throbs, then let it
mingle with the Corse of the Coffin, and Lo! As
the sands of the third hour sink in the glass—
the dead shall arise!”

“There—there—within the Tabernacle of

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

Life,” shouted Aldarin, with an upraised arm and
kindling eye—“There rests the Corse of the Sacrificed,
there ascends the fire of beechen wood,
beating the coffin of iron to a white heat—within
the confines of yon funeral urn, rests the Heart,
and the phial of silver by its side, contains the
priceless Waters of Life! Behold the sands of
the third hour are falling in the glass—a little
while and — how the thought stirs my very
soul—the dead will live again!”

“The dead?” echoed Ibrahim with a gaze of
wonder—“How meanest thou, Aldarin?”

“Must I then, unclose the darkest place in this
seared bosom to thy gaze? Man, I tell thee—his
form—the form of my brother shall live again!”

“Thy brother—Awful God!” whispered the
Arabian in a tone, whose horror may not be described—
“Thy brother then was thy last victim?”

“Pity me, Ibrahim, pity me!” shrieked Aldarin.
“Swayed by two mingling and opposing
motives—the one, ambition for the welfare of my
child—the other, the all-absorbing desire for the
Immortal Life on earth; but a few short days
ago, I beheld approach the last moment of the
Mystic Age of Toil. Then—then, I first learned
the necessity of the fearful sacrifice, and then,
then I drugged the bowl of death!”

“This—this is too horrible for belief!” muttered
Ibrahim in a whispered voice; “Now—now
my soul is firm for the work of the night!”

“Was I to falter when the hour of fear and
doom drew nigh?” shrieked Aldarin, as his slender
form rose proudly erect, and his wild face
shone in the full light of the blazing flame. “Was
I, I who had strode on to the guerdon of all my
toil, unfearing and undismayed, though the dead
body of my wife lay in my path, though the hopes
of my heart fell withering and dead around me,
while the spirit of my love for her, plead and
plead in vain for pity; was I, Aldarin, to spare
the blow, when that blow would crown my earthly
ambition, and complete my immortal toil? Ha—
ha! The thought is vain!”

“Hadst thou no mercy?”

“In such a cause, I answer none! I tell thee
man, had my brother pleaded for his life, and
sprinkled my feet with his tears, had he pleaded
for his life in the calm, soft tones of childhood, the
tones that brought back the memory of those
days when our arms and hands were interlocked,
had he sprinkled my feet with such tears as wet
this seared face, when I rescued him from the waters
of the river that rolls without these walls,
some thirty years ago—then, even then I could
not have spared him! No, no, no! It was to be,
and it was!”

“He shall rise from the dead, thou sayst? In
what form shall he appear?”

“Fair, and young, and beautiful; youth shrined
in his heart and power throned on his brow! His
mind will be fresh with new-born vigor, yet Memory
of the Past, shall never darken his bosom!
The babe is not more unconscious of its pre-existence
in another and a far-off world, than will be
Julian my brother of the Past, with all its darkness
and doom.”

“How dost thou know, that he will arise in this
form?”

“Spoke the Nazarine truth, when he said, `Faith
can remove mountains?' The Will of the Soul,
mighty in the consciousness of its immortal powers
and infinite sympathies, can do more! The
Will, determined and inflexible, can bend the invisible
mysteries of the universe to its bidding, call
up the fearful influences, ever at work within the
bosom of Nature, and chain them, slaves of its power;
bind the wild elements of man's heart in subjection,
and awe the souls of the multitude, when
aroused by passion, or maddened by revenge
The Will can sway the heart of man, to the
windings of a path, dark as the way I have trodden,
leading the Soul onward through mystery,
and doom, and blood; teaching it to trample on
Fear, laugh at the ghastly face of Remorse, and
scorn the uplifted arm of God! `Faith can remove
mountains!' I cannot, may not, at this fearful
hour, trace the operations of the Invisible
Might! Suffice it to say—Aldarin wills that the
Re-created shall walk forth in a form of youth and
power, and it shall be so!”

“Lo! The sands of the hour glass are well
nigh spent. One-half of the last hour alone remains!”

“I will gaze within the Tabernacle of Life!”

Aldarin advanced, swept the sable hangings
aside, and in a moment was lost to view. Ibrahim
also advanced to the front of the Tabernacle—
as the mystic jargon of the Scholar named the
test—and listened with hushed breath and absorbing
interest. He could hear the subdued hissing
of the flames within the Tabernacle, he could hear
a low, scarce perceptible sound, like the seething
of boiling lend, and a penetrating perfume of
mingled frankincense and myrrh, saluted his

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

senses, mingled with the odor of decaying mortality.

A single moment passed while Ibrahim listened,
and then he advanced to the verge of the vast
fire, burning on the cavern floor, and stood for a
moment wrapt in stern and solitary thought.
Clasping his hands across his chest, he drooped
his head low upon his bosom, while the trembling
lip and dilated eye attested the violence of the
struggle at work within his inmost soul.

He raised his head and looked round. Tall and
erect, the ruddy glow of the fire, streaming over
his majestic face, disclosing every outline of his
imposing costume, the Arabian gazed around, and
beheld the stern sublimity of the cavern of the
dead. Save the hissing of the flame, all was still
and silent. Not a word, not a whisper. Silence
dwelt supreme, the Spirit and the Divinity of the
place.

Far, far above, the cavern roof, extending like a
sky, received on each rugged projection, the ruddy
glow of the flame, while long belts of flickering
light were thrown along the pavement of
stone, for a moment revealing the strange and
fantastic forms scattered around the dim walls of
the vault, in strong and startling relief; and then
again the fire would suddenly subside, leaving
everything, save the floor in its immediate vicinity,
wrapt in thick and sombre darkness.

“A strange fancy,” murmured Ibrahim, “Methought
I saw yonder statues moving to and fro,—
a wild delirium of my fancy!”

“It throbs—it throbs—it palpitates!” a deeptoned,
yet wild and thrilling voice broke the silence
of the cavern—“Look, Ibrahim, how the
Waters of Life, hasten the completion of the
Mighty Labour!”

Ibrahim hurriedly turned and beheld Aldarin,
standing beside the Altar of Ebony, grasping the
phial of silver in one hand, while with the other
he raised on high the Secret of the Funeral Urn,
that may not be named by man, or written down
on this page, lest incredulity should smile in ignorant
scorn, and shallow unbelief make a mock
of the Dark Fanaticism of the Past.

“It throbs—it throbs—it warms with life!”
again shricked Aldarin, as he rushed within the
confines of the hangings of sable—“Lo! The
coffin of iron is heated to a white heat; the charm
hastens to perfection!”

“Mine eyes are cheated by vain delusions!'
muttered Ibrahim, “But a moment agone, and
methought the arabesque figures were flitting to
and fro, and now—as I live, there 'tis again—I
behold dim shadows gliding round yon funeral
pile!”

As he spoke the fire waned, and a sudden darkness,
only relieved by the faint flashes of light
came down like midnight upon the cavern. Ibrahim
looked around and beheld Aldarin standing
near his side, holding an opened missal in his
hand, which disclosed a hollow casket—instead
of the emblazoned leaves of a book of devotion,—
glittering with a gem that shone through the
gathering darkness like a star. And as the Arabian
looked he beheld Aldarin apply the mouth
of a small silver phial which he held in his hand,
to the surface of the gem, while a meaning smile
stole over his face. The fire blazing on the cavern
floor, lighted up with sudden vigor, and white
columns of smoke, rolling from the silver phial,
gathered in waving folds above the head of Aldarin,
and swept far away, like the wings of a mighty
bird, until they encircled the giant outline of
the Demon Form, towering far, far overhead.

“Ibrahim, my brother,” cried the voice of Aldarin,
“I would welcome the Arisen-Dead with
sweet perfumes and fragrant incense. 'Tis thus
the Book commands!”

He looked forth from the cloud of smoke that
enveloped his form, and started in surprise as he
beheld the erect form of the Arabian. The chymical
spell, from whose influence the Scholar had
defended himself, took no effect on the form of
the Arabian Prince.

“The all-penetrating essence of the dead pervading
the air and imbucing the atmosphere,
renders the spell powerless!” he murmured with
a frown of impatience. “And yet Aldarin and his
new-risen brother must have no witness of their
mighty mysteries! Though he had a thousand
lives, still must he carry my secret where 'twill
be safe—to—ha, ha, to the grave!”

“The sands of the glass are falling,” cried Ibrahim
advancing, “one-fourth of the last hour alone
remains!”

“And while that fragment of time is gathered
to eternity, the Water of Life is darting like lightning
through the body of the dead—and—and—
yet hold a moment, good Ibrahim! Dost thou
not envy my immortal career? Dost desire to
drink the Water of Life? Lo, the flagon is a
thy command—drink, Ibrahim, and become immortal!”

“Drink I will!” exclaimed Ibrahim with a
meaning smile, as he took the flagon in his grasp

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

which the Scholar had substituted for the phial
containing the Water of Life—“Drink I will, but
first I will give thee a proof of my power!”

“Thy power? I am all amazement!”

“Learn, mighty Scholar, that the children of
the race of Ben-Malakim hold the power of calling
the spirits of the dead up from the silence of the
grave, or summoning the spectres of the living
from the uttermost parts of the earth!”

“These are idle words. Ibrahim, thou triflest
with me!”

“Aldarin gaze around thee—all is dark and indistinct,
the fire has burned to its embers, and the
cavern beyoud is wrapt in shadow. Aldarin, cast
thy memory backward over the scenes of thy life,
and tell me—which of thine enemies wouldst thou
summon before thee in this scene of gloom?”

“He will drink the flagon at last,” muttered
Aldarin; “I'll even humor his whim. I would
behold the forms of two slaves, whom I hate as
darkly as my soul can hate. I would behold”—
he whispered the names between his clenched
teeth—“summon the slaves before me, if thou
can'st!”

“Lo! it is done,”—shouted the Arabian—
“Spirits of Ben-Malakim, appear—in the name of
God, appear!”

“I hear a hushed sound like the tread of armies,”
murmured Aldarin—“Yet all is dark
around me!”

Scarce had the words passed from his lips when
a dim yet lurid light, issuing from an invisible
source, streamed around the cavern, and the face
of Aldarin, tinted by the ghastly radiance, was
stamped with an expression of wonder and awe.
Around, on every side, gathered along the rude
pavement, shoulder to shoulder, a shadowy multitude
stood dimly revealed in the lurid light, with
dark and immoveable faces looking from beneath
the shadow of sable helmets ponderous with waving
plumes. And as Aldarin looked, the cavern
was for a single moment wrapt in the darkness of
midnight. The gloom was again succeeded by
the lurid light, and before the very eyes of the
Scholar, gazing him sternly and fixedly in the
face, stood two warrior forms, silent and motionless
as statues. One was a stern old knight, clad in
glittering armour, with long waving locks of
snow-white hue falling far beneath his helmet,
along his venerable countenance and over his
iron-robed chest. The other, wore the appearance
of a bluff soldier, next in rank to an Esquire, for
he was clad in attire of substantial buff, with the
rugged outline of his unplumed cap surmounting
a massive forehead, seamed by wrinkles and hardened
by battle-toil.

There was something intensely horrible in the
wild glow of triumph with which Aldarin regarded
the spectres.

“Ha—ha! The vulgar hind, whom this hand
consigned to darkness, arises to swell the triumph
of the Scholar! But the other form—'tis the form
of my mortal foe! He comes in spirit to look
upon the glory of Aldarin! A few brief days and
over his heart and brain will blacken the vengeance
of the Scholar—vengeance such as never shadowed
earth or darkened hell! Away with these
phantoms, Ibrahim—my brain is 'wildered with
much joy—away!”

Through the gloom, he advanced toward the
figures, he reached forth his hand, expecting to
grasp the intangible air, when it rattled against
the rugged plates of iron defending the breast of
the venerable warrior. The echo of the rattling
armour was returned by a clanking sound that
rang to the very cavern's roof, like the clashing of
a thousand swords. There was a dark and fearful
pause. Aldarin held his breath and his hands
clutched convulsively at his throat.

“Behold,” shouted the voice of Ibrahim,” “behold
the spectres by the light of a thousand
torches!”

And at the magic word, the Cavern of Death
was all alive with light, the light of blazing torches,
grasped by the mailed hands of warriors, while
the stalwart forms of the men-at-arms gathered
in one dense and blackening multitude along the
pavement of stone, rose clear and distinctly in the
ruddy beams, and their sable plumes waved like a
forest in the air. Aldarin looked from side to
side—he passed his hand wildly over his forehead,
he strove to arouse his soul from this fearful
dream. It was no dream, Great God of Truth
and Vengeance! it was no dream. On every
side the gleam of arms broke on the eye of Aldarin,
on every side the frown of warlike visages
met his gaze, and his glance was returned by the
flashing glare of a thousand eyes.

The spell broke—the reality sank down upon
the soul of Aldarin. His face was stamped with
an expression that brought to the minds of the
gazers the horror of a soul plunged into eternal
torment from the very battlements of heaven; he
extended his right arm with a wild gesture, and
clenched the hand until the sinews seemed bursting
from the skin, his lips parted, his jaw sank

[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

down to his very breast, while his full grey eye
glared like the eye of the tiger at bay, rolling its
glance from side to side, dilating every moment,
and flashing like a meteor.

“Ibrahim—Ibrahim—I am betrayed!” he shricked,
turning to the Arabian. “Albarone to the
rescue!”

He turned to the Arabian, he beheld him standing
calm and erect beside the altar of ebony. He
advanced to his side, and as he raised his hand to
grasp the robe of the stranger, he started backward
with a howl of despair whose emphasis of
horror may not be described in words. The
snow-white beard, the grey hair, the white eye-brows,
fell from the tawny face of Ben-Malakim,
and Aldarin beheld the visage of —Albertine, the
Monk!

Then it was that the soul of the old man sank
within him, then it was that he raised his trembling
hands aloft, shaking them madly in the air,
while a wild yell of execration burst from the
Phantom Band.

“Men of Albarone!” arose the shout of the
grey-haired knight; “Behold the murderer of your
Lord!”

“Behold the brother-murderer!” shricked the
stout yeoman, standing at the side of Sir Geoffrey.
`These eyes beheld him hug his brother in the
foul embrace of murder!”

And as he spoke the band of men-at-arms came
pressing slowly and solemnly on, glittering swords
flashed in the light, and low muttered cries of
vengeance broke on the air. Closer and more
close they gathered, while Albertine stood silent
and motionless regarding the scene.

“The sands have fallen to within five minutes
of the time!” madly shrieked Aldarin. “The
charm may yet be complete!”

He wildly turned from the advancing knights
and yeomen, he turned towards the Tabernacle,
he heeded not the cries of execration that arose on
every side, he trembled not at the frown of the
Demon Form towering far, far above. He turned
towards the Tabernacle, he was about to rush
within the folds of the sable hangings, when he
started back to the very breast of Sir Geoffry o' th'
Long-sword, with a wild exclamation of joy.

There, before his very eyes, in front of the sable
tent, stood a youthful form, clad in a dress of
glittering white, his arms folded on his breast,
while with his face drooped on his bosom he gazed
fixedly at the visage of Aldarin, and as he gazed
the night-wind played with the floating locks of
his golden hair.

“Behold, behold, men of Albarone,” shouted
Aldarin, with a wild laugh of joy, “your lord hath
arisen from the dead! Before your eyes he
stands, calm and mighty; youth in his heart, and
power on his brow! Ha—ha—ha! I did—I
did slay him! But I have raised him from the
sleep of death! Behold—ha, ha, ha!—behold!”

“Slave of thine own wild delusion,” exclaimed
Sir Geoffrey o' th' Longsword, as he advanced,
“thou art gazing upon the form of Adrian Di Albarone!”

“The avenger of his father's blood!” shouted
the form, advancing to the light. “Murderer, behold
thy doomsman!”

Aldarin bowed his face low on his breast, and
veiled his eyes in his hands, while a sound like
the death groan rattled in his throat. His was no
common agony. His was no mortal sorrow. His
bosom trembled not with the throes of grief for
the wife slain by death, or the child torn from his
embrace by unknown hands; the tears he wept
were not visible tears, pouring from his eyes along
the furrowed cheek. No, no. His soul wept
within him tears such as giant souls alone can
weep, when a mighty thought is slain, when the
idea of a life is crushed.

“Avengers of your lord, advance,” shricked Sir
Geoffrey o' th' Longsword; “advance, and seize
the murderer!”

Aldarin turned; a thought flashed over his soul
Three minutes of the last hour yet remained.
The sands of the glass had not yet fallen. That
little shed of time gained, he might yet complete
the charm; the mystic age of toil might yet be
rewarded by the immortal boon.

He flung himself at the feet of Sir Geoffrey o
th' Longsword; yes, yes, the proud and mighty
Aldarin threw his form prostrate on the cavern
floor, and, with upturned gaze, clutched the knees
of the knight.

“Give me, give me but three minutes of life—
three minutes alone, and then ye may lead me to
the death.”

The knight trembled: he had been prepared
for scorn and defiance, but not for tears.

“Away with his magical pranks, away with
his works of hell!” arose the shout of the stout
yeoman, as, with one rude grasp, he tore the
tented hanging of the Tabernacle from the poles
that supported their folds. `St. Withold! what

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

infernal cookery have we here? Thus, thus I
scatter the magical fire—thus I overturn this coffin
of iron! Gather around, ye men of Albarone:
scatter the works of this demon along the floor of
the cavern!”

It was the work of an instant. While Sir Geoffrey
trembled; while the monk Albertine stood beside
the altar of ebony, veiling his face in his
hands; while even Adrian, the son of the murdered,
hesitated and paused, ere the request of Aldarin
was refused, the men-at-arms, led on by
Rough Robin, overturned the coffin of iron, heated
as it was to a white heat, scattered the embers
of the fire along the surface of the floor, and concealed
the nameless secret of the coffin with the
dark hangings of leather, which they flung over
the disgorged contents of the receptacle of the
dead.

Aldarin slowly arose on his feet. All emotion
had vanished from his face. Stern, calm, and
fearless, he gazed around. He looked over the
vast expanse of the cavern roof, he marked the
dread face of the demon form towering far above,
he gazed upon the hurrying forms and wild faces
of the men-at-arms.

“Lead me, lead me to my death—” spoke the
fierce tones of Aldarin, the scholar. “I scorn and
defy ye all.”

Albertine, the monk, still clad in the dark robe
and majestic attire of Ibrahim Ben Malakim,
strode suddenly to the side of the scholar, and
thrust a parchment roll in his hands.

“Man, I betrayed thee,” he whispered, in tones
that attested his agony. “Man, I betrayed thee,
though my heart smote me in the act. Yet I will
not scorn thee in this thy final hour. The parchment,
the parchment—grasp it with a grasp like
death; the phial, the phial!” He turned, and
continued in a loud voice, audible to the avengers:
“Sinner, receive this book of prayer; it may comfort
thy final hour.”

Aldarin took the parchment, and calmly folded
it to his bosom.

“I scorn ye all,” he shrieked. “I defy your
vengeance, I dare the doom ye would inflict. Aldarin
fears not death.”

“To the gibbet with the murderer,” shouted
Sir Geoffrey o' th' Longsword. “Aye, upon the
same gibbet where blacken the forms of the brave
soldiers of Lord Julian; there, there let the miscreant
dangle.”

And the men-at-arms echoed the shout, until
the vast cavern roof resounded with the words of
doom: “To the gibbet—to the gibbet with the
fratricide!”

In a moment the cavern was left to silence and
eternal night. Never since that fearful hour has
human foot trode the funeral vaults of Albarone.
Along dark passages, through subterranean corridors,
and up tottering stairways, poured the flood
of men-at-arms, bearing with them the scholar
and fratricide. At last, winding through the
same passages traversed three hours agone by Aldarin
and Ibrahim, passing through the chymical
laboratory, which has never been disclosed to the
eye of the reader, the crowd of avengers reached
the Round Room. The altar was overturned, the
books and parchments torn from the shelves, yet
the scholar quailed not, nor uttered word of lamentation.
Gloomy corridors were then traversed,
massive stairways ascended, the hall of the castle
passed, and at last Aldarin emerged from the castle
door, and stood upon the slab of stone surmounting
the flight of steps. He gazed around,
while the avengers came thronging at his back;
and as he gazed, the court-yard of the castle became
the scene of a strange spectacle.

eaf248.n2

[2] Ibrahim Ben-Malakim (Arabic) “the Son of the Kings.”