l by the way. All the griefs of the poor
seemed to concentrate themselves upon him as he moaned and staggered.
"Father of Israel, what shall I do if she abandon me? There is no food
for a fatherless boy here. Oh, Madama!"

But when at length he scrambled up to the house on the hillside and saw
his mistress and Esther Jokanian sitting in the window overlooking the
sea, he took heart again. When Evanthia, leaning out in a loose robe
that showed transparent against the lamp behind her, called, "Who is
there?" he replied that it was her faithful servant with news. She came
down like a swiftly moving phantom and unlocked the gate, pulling it
wide with her characteristic energy and courage.

"Speak!" she said in a thrilling, dramatic whisper, all her soul
responding to the moment. The youth held out his hand palm upward while
he leaned his head against the rough wall.

"Oh, Madama, he is come," he replied in a low tone, as though he sensed
the formidable importance of his words in their lives. She stood staring
at him for a second and then, pulling him in, she closed the gate with a
tremendous clang that jarred the very foundation of his reason. It was
at times like these that this young man, born into a chaotic world of
alien beings intent upon inexplicable courses of action, inspired by
unknown and possibly sinister ideals, was upon the point of dashing his
head with maniac energy against those heavy ancient stones which, by
comparison, seemed less foreign to his distracted soul.

"Come," she said with a mysterious smile. "Your fortune is made. You
must go back with a message."

"Oh, Madama!" he wailed.

She dragged him up the steps leading to the rooms above.

"Endlich!" she cried to Esther, who sat by the window, chin on hand, and
muttering in her husky man's voice. "He is here. I must have been born
with good fortune after all."

"You are throwing away the greatest chance in your life," growled Esther
without looking at her. The young man gave a stifled yelp and choked,
holding his arms out as though in supplication. They looked at him, but
he could not proceed. His courage failed as his exacerbated imagination
pictured the tigerish glare in Evanthia's eyes if he should tell her
about the last one that was left at Kara-hissar. He put a hand to his
throat and mumbled: "The message, Madama? It is late."

"You do not understand," said Evanthia crossly to her friend. "What do
you think I am made of? Do you think I