d the outrageous tyranny of the priests.

"What has my son done to be excommunicated? Hear it, ye people, hear
it. And be just to me and my son. What has he done to deserve the
anathema of the Church? What has he done?" And thus frantic, mad, she
runs through the main street of the town, making wild gestures and
clamours,--publishing, as it were, the Patriarchal Bull, before it was
read by the priest on the following day, and tacked on the door of the
Church.

Of this Bull, tricked with the stock phrases of the Church of the
Middle Ages, such as "anathema be he," or "banned be he," who
speaks with, deals with, and so forth, we have a copy before us.
But our readers will not pardon us, we fear, if further space and
consideration be here given to its contents. Suffice it to say,
however, that Khalid comes to church on that fatal day, takes the
foolscap sheet down from the door, and, going with it to the
town-square, burns it there before the multitudes.

And it came to pass, when the Bull is burned in the town-square of
Baalbek, in the last year of the reign of Abd'ul-Hamid, some among the
multitudes shout loud shouts of joy, and some cast stones.

Then, foul, vehement speaking falleth between the friends and the
enemies of him who wrought evil in the sight of the Lord;

And every one thereupon brandisheth a stick or taketh up a stone and
the battle ensueth.

Now, the mighty troops of the Sultan of the Ottomans come forth like
the Yaman wind and stand in the town-square like rocks;

And the battle rageth still, and the troops who are come forth to part
the fighting multitudes, having gorged themselves at the last meal,
can not as much as speak their part:

And it came to pass, when the clubs and spades are veiled and the
battle subsideth of itself, the good people return to their respective
callings and trades;

But the perverse recalcitrants which remain--and Khalid the Baalbekian
is among them--are taken by the aforesaid overfed troops to the City
Hall and thence to the _velayet_ prison in Damascus.

And here endeth our stichometrics of the Battle of the Bull.

Now, Shakib may wear out his shoes this time, his tongue, too, and his
purse, but to no purpose. Behold, your friend the _kaimkam_ is gloomy
and impassive as a camel; what can you do? Whisper in his ear? The
Padres have done that before you. Slip a purse into his pocket? They
have done that, too, and overdone it long since. Yes, the City Hall of
eve