"Any idea who he is?" (The soul of the copyhunter is a restless
soul.)

A group of men dressed in semi-European fashion--that is, in
European fashion save for their turbans, which were green--passed
close to us along the deck.

Ahmadeen appeared not to have heard the question.

The disturbance, which could only be defined as a subdued uproar,
but could be traced to no particular individual or group, grew
momentarily louder--and died away. It was only when it had
completely ceased that one realized how pronounced it had been
--how altogether peculiar, secret; like that incomprehensible
murmuring in a bazaar when, unknown to the insular visitor, a
reputed saint is present.

Then it happened; the inexplicable incident which, though I knew
it not, heralded the coming of strange things, and the dawn of a
new power; which should set up its secret standards in England,
which should flood Europe and the civilized world with wonder.

A shrill scream marked the overture--a scream of fear and of pain,
which dropped to a groan, and moaned out into the silence of which
it was the cause.

"My God! what's that?"

I started forward. There was a general crowding rush, and a darkly
tanned and bearded man came on board, carrying a brown leather case.