"See!" said a voice out of darkness. "He empties himself! That
is well. It is only the end of the fever. Now he will be a man
again. But the sahibs should have left that writer of characters
in the corn-bin, where he could have shared the fate of his master
without troubling us again!"

Rustum Khan strode into the light, with half his fierce beard burned
away from having been the last to leave by the front entrance, and
a decided limp from having been kicked by a frantic mule.

"What have you done with the German?" demanded Monty.

"I, sahib? Nothing. In truth nothing. It was the seven sons of
the Turk--abetted I should say by gipsies. It was the German who
set the place alight. The girl, Maga Jhaere they call her, saw him
do it. She watched like a cat, the fool, hoping to amuse herself,
while he burned off his ropes with a brand that fell his way out
of the fire. When another brand jumped half across the room he set
the place alight with it, tossing it over the party wall. He was
an able rascal, sahib."

"Was?" demanded Monty.

"Aye, sahib, was! In another second he released the Turkish lieutenant
and shouted in his ear to escape and say that Armenians burned this
kahveh! Gregor Jhaere slew the Turk, however. And Maga followed
the German into the open, where she denounced him to some of the
Zeitoonli who recently arrived. They took him and threw him back
into the fire--where he remained. I begin to like these Zeitoonli.