as he spoke, agitated like his spirit. What he has heard
abroad and what he suspects, are shadowed forth in his friendly
counsel. Let Khalid reflect upon it. Our Scribe, at least, is
persuaded that Sheikh Taleb spoke as a friend. And he, too, suspects
that something is brewing abroad. He would have Khalid hearken,
therefore, to the Sheikh.

But Khalid in silence ponders the matter. And at table, even Mrs.
Gotfry can not induce him to speak. She has just returned from the
bazaar; she could hardly make her way through the choked arcade
leading to the Mosque; the crowd is immense and tumultuous; and a
company of the Dragoons is gone forth to open the way and maintain
order. "But I don't think they are going to succeed," she added.
Silently, impassively, Khalid hears this. And after going through the
second course, eating as if he were dreaming, he gets up and leaves
the table. Mrs. Gotfry, somewhat concerned, orders her last course,
takes her thimble-full of coffee at a gulp, and, leaving likewise,
hurries upstairs and calls Khalid, who was pacing up and down the
hall, into her room.

"What is the matter with you?"

"Nothing, nothing," murmured Khalid absent-mindedly.

"That's not true. Everything belies your words. Why, your actions,
your expression, your silence oppresses me. I know what is disturbing
you. And I would prevail upon you, if I could, to give up this
afternoon's business. Don't go; don't speak. I have a premonition that
things are not going to end well. Why, even my dragoman says that the
Mohammedan mob is intent upon some evil business. Be advised. And
since you are going to break with your associates, why not do so now.
The quicker the better. Come, make up your mind. And we'll not wait
for the morning train. We'll leave for Baalbek in a special carriage
this afternoon. What say you?"

Just then the brass band in front of the Hotel struck up the Dastur
march in honour of the Sheikhs who come to escort the Unionist
Deputies and the speaker to the Mosque.

"I have made up my mind. I have given my word."

And being called, Mrs. Gotfry, though loath to let him go, presses his
hand and wishes him good speed.

And here we are in the carriage on the right of the green-turbaned
Sheikh. We look disdainfully on the troops, the brass band, and the
crowd of nondescripts that are leading the procession. We cross the
bridge, pass the Town-Hall, and, winding a narrow street groaning with
an electric tramway, w