her beautiful hair its golden tint,--walnut shells and
cosmetics not being found in the private toilet of the
priests and their companions. When the summer
came a greater privilege was given her. She could
never speak to any one and no one could speak to
her--even the priests knew this--but a gate opening
into the high-walled garden was left unlocked now
and then by one of the kind-hearted Mohammedans,
and often she would wander as far as the end of the
wall overlooking the Mosque of Suleiman, her attendant
always with her--a black woman appointed by
Chief-of-Police Selim, and responsible for her safety,
and who would pay forfeit with her head if Yuleima
escaped.

"And you think now, effendi," concluded Joe, as
he drained his last cup of coffee (Hornstog's limit
was twenty cups at intervals of three minutes each),
"that Joe be big damn fool to put his foots in this--
what you call--steel trap? No, no, we keep away.
To-morrow, don't it, we take Yusuf and go Scutari?
One beautiful fountain at Scutari like you never
see!"

"But can't her father help?" I asked, ignoring
his suggestion. His caution did not interest me. It
was the imprisoned girl and her suffering that occupied
my thoughts.

"Yes, perhaps, but not yet. I somethings hear