ting the
hand.... Looking worried.... Great waves of air came into Shane's
chest.... His knees were weak.... The Syrian walked around an instant,
thinking, worrying.... He was serious now.... Suddenly he plunged....

But swifter than Ahmet's plunge was thought and memory.... Of a day at
Nagasaki ... of a little brown smiling Japanese and a burly square-head
sailorman.... Of the Japanese's courteous explanation in smiling
Pidgin.... With luck and timing he could do it.... Fast, but not too
fast, and steady.... Handsomely, as the ship-word was.... There!

The hands trained to whipping lanyards caught Ahmet's wrists as he
plunged. Shane's right leg went outward, foot sunk home. Backward he
fell, leg taunt, hands pulling. Above him Ahmet's great bulk soared,
hurtled grotesquely. For an instant; a flash.... The squeals of startled
Syrians, the panic of feet.... Then a crash, an immense crash....

A long shuddering, frightened _eh_ from the crowd.... A French soldier
mumbling ... "_'Cre nom de nom de nom de nom de Jesus Chri!_"

He staggered to his feet, put his hand to his face.... It came away
dripping.... His face was like the leeward deck of a flying yacht ...
swimming.... A few feet away Syrians and French soldiers were milling
over ... something.... The corporal wrenched Shane's arms into his coat.
Pushed his hat into his hands.

"_Courez donc, le citoyen_.... Come on, get away.... Get...."

"Is he dead?"

"No, not dead.... But get away.... He'll never wrestle again.... _Vite,
alors!_"

He pushed him down the street.

"But----"

[Illustration]

"Go on. We can take care of ourselves...." He shoved him roughly
forward.... Shane staggered, walked, ran a little.... Behind him a
few blocks away, an ominous hum. He ran on.... Some one was
shrieking....

"_Ma hala ya ma hala Kobal en Nosara_.... How sweet, oh, how sweet, to
kill the Christians...." The crack of a gun.... Tumult.... The long
Moslem war-song.... Two rifles. "_A nous, les Francais_.... _A nous, la
Legion_!"

A nausea, a great weakness, an utter contempt for himself came over him
in the boat pulling him toward his ship ... God! He had fought with and
nearly killed--possibly killed--a man for personal hatred! From
irritation, and in a public place! A spectacle for donkey-boys and
riff-raff of French towns.... He tottered on the ship's ladder.... The
sailors caught him. The mate ran up.

"Anything wrong, sir? You look like a ghost."

"No, nothin