boats in which they came over the sea this afternoon. The boats
will be found by the Sikhs, hauled up on the sand-pit just below
my house, with my motor-boat beside them. I am ruined!"

Well, my own predicament was better than that. Nobody was likely
to accuse me of having stolen sheep. But I could not feel sorry
for my host, because he was so sorry for himself. He was one of
those unfortunates who carry the conviction of their own guilt in
their faces. I gave up all idea of relying on him in case the
Sikhs should come.

My next idea was to ask for the loan of one of the donkeys, and
to start back toward Jerusalem. But I had not more than thought
of it when men's footsteps pattered on the yard dung, and an
indubitable rifle-butt beat on the wooden door.

"For God's sake!" hissed the owner of the place. He ran to the
door to open it as the thumping grew louder. As he drew the bolt
somebody kicked the door open, sending him reeling backwards.
For a second I thought the Sikhs had come.

But he was nothing like a Sikh who strode in, with a dozen
ruffians at his tail and one-eyed Ali bringing up the rear. He
was one of the finest-looking Arabs I had ever seen, although
considerably past fifty and wrinkled so that his face was a net-
work of fine lines, out of which his big, dark eyes shone with
unaged intelligence. He was magnificently dressed, perhaps in
order to do me honour. Except for the fact that he carried a
modern military rifle on his elbow, in place of a shepherd's
crook or a spear, he looked like one of those historic worthies