It was of no moment to Arlee Beecher what Islam would not endure.
Her heart was galloping now like a runaway horse, but her voice rang
with quick reaction from that first sickening shock.

"What nonsense," she said positively. "They wouldn't shoot _me_. Why
didn't you call me when the English doctor was here. I could have
explained then. But now--now I had better telephone, I suppose.
Either to the doctor or the English ambassador--or the American
consul. I'll make them understand in a jiffy. Where is your
telephone, please?"

"Alas, not in the palace." The young captain's look of regret
deepened.

"But--but you telephoned your sister! You telephoned her this
afternoon."

"Ah, yes, but I spoke to a telephone which is in a palace near
here--the palace of my uncle. I sent a servant with the message. But
I can send a message to that palace," he offered eagerly, "and they
can telephone for you. Or I can send notes out to all the people you
wish. The soldiers will call boys to deliver them."

Across the girl's perfectly white face a tremor of panic darted;
then she bit her lips very hard and stared very intently past the
Captain's green and gold shoulder. She had totally forgotten the
sister who had sunk on a divan beside them, her brown eyes rimmed in
their dark pencilings turning from one to the other as if to read
their faces.