rica? It is enough, then, that
you look the situation over, and tell what you know on your
return. We will provide a building, a proper salary, and
guarantee the teacher's life. We would prefer a woman, but it
would be wisest to send a man."

"How so? The woman might not shoot straight? I've some of our
Western women do tricks with a gun that would--"

"There would be no need. She would have our word of honour. But
every sheikh who has only three wives would want to make her his
fourth. A man would be best. Will you come with me?"

"On your single undertaking to protect me? Are you king of all
that countryside?"

"If you will come, you shall have an escort, every man of whom
will die before he would let you be killed. And if they, and
you, should all be killed, their sons and grandsons would avenge
you to the third generation of your murderers."

"That's undoubtedly handsome, but--"

"Believe me, effendi," he urged, "many a soul has been consoled
in hell-fire by the knowledge that his adversaries would be cut
off in their prime by friends who are true to their given word."

Meaning to back out politely, I assured him I would think the
offer over.

"Well and good," he answered. "You have my promise. Should you
decide to come, leave word here with the American Colony. They
will get word to me. Then I will send for you, and the escort
shall meet you at the Dead Sea."

I talked it over with two or three members of the Colony, and
they assured me the promise could be depended on. One of
them added:

"Besides, you ought to see El-Kerak. It's an old crusader city,
rather ruined, but more or less the way the crusaders left it.
And that craving of theirs for a school is worth doing something
about, if you ever have an opportunity. They say they have too
much religion already, and no enlightenment at all. A teacher
who knew Arabic would have a first-class time, and would be well
paid and protected, if he could keep his hands off politics. Why
not talk with Major Grim?"

It was a half-hour's walk to Grim's place, but I had the good
fortune to catch him in again. He was sitting in the same chair,
studying the same book, and this time I saw the title of it--
Walter Pater's Marius the Epicurean--a strange book for a soldier
to be reading, and cutting its pages with an inlaid dagger, in a
Jerusalem semi-military boarding-house. But he was a man of
unexpectedly assorted moods.

He laughed when I