Jimgrim Series. Talbot Mundy

blue sky. The Dead Sea lay and smiled below us, with the gorgeous, treeless Judean Hills beyond. Through the broken window of the hall came the clamour of arguing men.

      “O, Jimgrim!” grinned Mahommed ben Hamza when we reached the corner.

      Grim turned and faced us with folded arms, leaning his back against the parapet.

      Ben Hamza continued: “You are a very prince of dare-devils! One word from me—one little word, and they would fling you down into the moat for the vultures to feed on!”

      “I remember a time,” Grim answered, “when a word from me saved you from hanging.”

      “True, father of good fortune! But a man must laugh. I will hold my tongue in El-Kerak like a tomb that has not been plundered!”

      “You’d better! You’ve work to do. Where are your men?”

      “All where I can find them.”

      “Good. You’ll get turned out of the mejlis presently. Look down into the moat now.”

      We all peered over. The lower ramp of the wall sloped steeply, but all the way up the sharp southwest corner the stones were broken out, and a goat, or a very active man could find foothold.

      “Could you climb that?”

      “Surely. Remember, Jimgrim, when I climbed the wall of El-Kudz (Jerusalem) to escape from the police!”

      “Bring your men into the moat between dark and moonrise. Have a long rope with you—a good one. You and two men climb up here and hide. The remainder wait below. Oh, yes; and bring a wheat sack—a new, strong one. You may have to wait for several hours. When you see me, take your cue from me; but whatever happens, no murder! You understand? Nobody’s to be killed.”

      Ben Hamza grinned and nodded. He seemed to be one of those good-natured rogues who ask nothing better than the sheer sport of lawless hero-worship. He would have made a perfect chief of staff for any brigand, provided the brigand took lots of chances.

      “You’ll be killed, if anybody finds you up here after dark! You realize that?”

      “Trust me.”

      Grim nodded. He was good at trusting people, when he had to, and when the selection was his own.

      “Affairs seem to be drifting nicely,” he said, turning to me. “It’s best not to let Anazeh know who I am just yet, if that can be helped. But if you must, when the time comes, you’ll have to tell him. Do keep him sober. After the evening prayer there’ll be a banquet; if he gets drunk we’re done for. I’m going to make you out an awful leper, if you don’t mind. They may yell for your hide and feathers before I’ve finished, but Anazeh will protect you. If he leaves the hall in a huff, don’t make any bones about going with him. Let him ride out of town and wait for me about two miles down the track, at the point where that tomb stands above a narrow pass between two big rocks. Do you remember it?”

      “What if he won’t wait?”

      “He must! Tell him I’ll have a prisoner with me; then he’ll be curious. But you can bet on old Anazeh when he’s sober. But things may turn out so that it’s simpler for you to stay and see this through with me. In that case you must persuade him to go without you, after explaining to him just where he’s to wait.”

      “How shall I do that?” I said. “I haven’t enough Arabic.”

      “I’ll write it,” he answered. “Give me that pencil.”

      “Say something, too, then about his keeping sober.”

      Grim nodded, and wrote quite a long letter in Arabic on a page of my notebook.

      “The next move,” he said, as I pocketed the letter, “is for me to get Abdul Ali’s goat: I think—and I hope—he’ll try to bribe me. If he does, he’s my meat! The whole question of raid or no raid hangs on their confidence in him. If I throw suspicion on him, and he disappears directly afterwards, they’ll abandon the plan, confiscate his goods and chattels, and quarrel among themselves instead of raiding Palestine. Get me?”

      “Um-n-yes. I’ve sat on a horse I was warned against—felt safer—and gone to hospital at that.”

      He laughed.

      “No hospitals up here! It’ll be soon over if they get wise to us. But I think we’re all right; and you’re almost certainly safe. But don’t be tempted to talk. Well—we’ve been up here long enough for me to have put you through the third degree. Better look a bit uncomfortable as you go down, as if I’d got under your skin with some awkward questions. You, too, ben Hamza; don’t grin; look afraid.”

      “I am not at all afraid, Jimgrim. But I will try.”

      Grim studied for a moment.

      “Don’t forget,” he added, “at the first suggestion that you’re not wanted, make yourself scarce, and go and round up your men. If you’re thrown out pretty roughly, keep your temper and run.”

      “Taht il-amr!” (Yours to command.)

      “Come on, then. Let’s go.”

      The sun was fairly low over the Judean Hills as we turned down the narrow stairs and found Anazeh waiting at the bottom.

      CHAPTER NINE.

      “FEET DOWNWARDS, TOO AFRAID TO YELL!”—

       Table of Contents

      Abdul Ali of Damascus was holding the floor again when we returned. He had abandoned the cold air of mysterious authority and secrets in reserve. His claim to backstairs influence having been challenged, he had resorted to the emotional appeal that is the simplest means of controlling any crowd of men anywhere. The demagog who can find a million men all responsive to the same emotion can swing them as easily as a hundred if he knows his business. Loot was the tune he harped, with the old Ishmael blood-lust by way of obbligato.

      He had them by the heart-strings, and there were long-necked bottles of liquor that smelt of aniseed being passed from hand to hand. We returned to our places almost unnoticed, and within the minute some one handed a full bottle to Anazeh; the accompanying cup was big enough to hold any ordinary drunkard’s breakfast, and the old sheikh’s eyes admired the size of it.

      I laid my hand on the wrist that held the bottle. He shook it off angrily, and began to pour. Grim, over the way, looked anxious. It was up to me to play this hand, so I led my ace of trumps.

      Suddenly, and very clumsily, I rocked sideways to reach my hip-pocket, contriving to jog his elbow and spill what was already in the cup. He turned his head to curse savagely, and I showed him the folded sheet from my notebook. His name was on it in Arabic:

      “Sheikh Anazeh ben Mahmoud, from Jimgrim.”

      He seized it, setting the bottle down between his feet, where it was instantly reached for by some one else and handed down the line. Reading was evidently not Anazeh’s favorite amusement, but he knitted his brows over the letter and wrestled with it word by word, while Abdul Ali’s fiery declamation made the vaulted roof resound. I could only make out snatches of the appeal to savagery—a word and a sentence here and there.

      “Who are you, princes? Men with swords, or slaves who must obey?—Raid over the Jordan twenty thousand strong!—What are Jews? Shall Jews take the home of your ancestors? Who says so? —Let the Jews be buried in the land they come to steal!—You say the Jews are cleverer than you. Cut their heads off, then they cannot think!”

      “When did Jimgrim give you this?” Anazeh demanded, folding the letter and stowing it in his bosom.

      “That is the message that I told you would come later if you waited.”

      “Do you know what is in the message?”

      “No.” That