praying aloud--nasally--through the mouse-hole--for us, not himself.
I looked at my watch. It was two hours past midnight.

"You fellows," I said, "it's Sunday. The martyred biped has just
waked up and remembered it. He is praying that we may be forgiven
for polluting the Sabbath stillness with immoral tunes!"

My words had a strange effect. Monty, and Fred, and Will laughed.
Rustum Khan laughed savagely. But all the Armenians, including Kagig,
knelt promptly on the floor and prayed, the gipsies looking on in
mild amusement tempered by discretion. And out of the mouse-hole
in the horse-feed bin came Peter Measel's sonorous, overriding periods:

"And, O Lord, let them not be smitten by Thine anger. Let them not
be cut down in Thy wrath! Let them not be cast into hell! Give
them another chance, O Lord! Let the Ten Commandments be written
on their hearts in letters of fire, but let not their souls be damned
for ever more! If they did not know it was the Sabbath Day, O Lord,
forgive them! Amen!"

It was a most amazing night.




Chapter Seven
"We hold you to your word!"


LIBERA NOS, DOMINE!