a full moon that is streaked by dun dust clouds.

"Furthermore, howadji!" he hailed his chief as soon as he was within
earshot, "the shipment for Alexandretta is on its wayward--over than an
hour earlier than it was due to bestart itself. And those poor
hell-selected fellaheen are betoiling themselfs grand. Have I done well,
oh, howadji?"

"Najib!" stammered Kirby, still dazed.

"And here is that most sweet book of great worthiness and wit, which I
borrowed me of you in the night, howadji," pursued Najib, taking from
the soiled folds of his abieh a large old volume, bound in stout
leather, after the manner of religious or scientific books of a
half-century ago. On the brown back a scratched gold lettering
proclaimed the gruesome title:

"Martyrs of Ancient and Modern Error."

Well did Kirby know the tome. Hundreds of times, as a child, had he sat
on the stone floor of his father's cell-like mission study at Nablous,
and had pored in shuddering fascination over its highly coloured
illustrations. The book was a compilation--chiefly in the form of
multichrome pictures with accompanying borders of text--of all the
grisly scenes of martyrdom which the publishers had been able to scrape
together from such classics as "Fox's Book of Martyrs" and the like.
Twice this past year he had surprised Najib scanning the gruesome pages
in frank delight.

"I betook the book to their campfire, howadji, and I smote upon my