nderstood!"

Suddenly his body began to shake and his arms jerked convulsively.
Instinctively, but quite quietly, Mrs. Clarke put out her hand as if she
were going to lay hold of his right arm.

"No--don't!" he said. "Yesterday your hand made me worse."

She withdrew her hand. Her face did not change. She seemed wholly
unconscious of any rudeness on his part.

"Let's move--let's walk!" he said.

He sprang up. When he was on his feet he regained control of his body.

"I don't know what's the matter with me," he said. "I'm not ill."

"My friend, it will have to come," she said, getting up too.

"What?"

But she did not reply.

"I've never been like this till now," he added vaguely.

She knew why, but she did not tell him. She was a woman who knew how to
wait.

They wandered away through that cemetery above the Golden Horn, among
the cypresses and the leaning and fallen tombstones. Now and then they
saw veiled women pausing beside the graves with flowers in their hands,
or fading among the cypress trunks into sunlit spaces beyond. Now and
then they saw a man praying. Once they came to a tomb where children
were sitting in a circle chanting the Koran with a sound like the sound
of bees.

Before they went down to the Turkish cafe, which is close to the holy
mosque, they stood for a long while together on the hillside, looking
at distant Stamboul. The cupolas of the many mosques and the tall and
speary minarets gave their Eastern message--that message which, even to
Protestant men from the lands of the West, is as the thrilling sound of
a still, small voice. And the voice will not be gainsaid; it whispers,
"In the East thou shalt find me if thou hast not found me in the West."

"Why do you care for Stamboul so much?" Dion asked his companion. "I
think you are utterly without religion. I may be wrong, but I think you
are. And Stamboul is full of calls to prayer and of places for men to
worship in."

"Oh, there is something," she answered. "There is the Unknown God."

"The Unknown God?" he repeated, with a sort of still bitterness.

"And His city is Stamboul--for me. When the _muezzin_ calls I bow myself
in ignorance. What _He_ is, I don't know. All I know is that men cannot
explain Him to me, or teach me anything about Him. But Stamboul has
lures for me. It is not only the city of many prayers, it is also the
city of many forgetfulnesses. The old sages said, 'Eat not thy heart
nor mourn the buried Past.' S