In the crisis of the effort at self-control, he heard a groan, and,
looking down, saw the mad devotee at his feet. In sliding from the shelf
of the base, the man had been turned upon his back, so that he was lying
face upward. On the forehead there were two cruel wounds; and the blood,
yet flowing, had partially filled the hollows of the eyes, making the
countenance unrecognizable.

"The wretch is dying," the Prince exclaimed.

"Allah is merciful--let us attend to the prayers," the guide returned,
intent on business.

"But he will die, if not helped."

"When we have finished, the porters will come for him."

The sufferer stirred, then raised a hand.

"O Hadji--O Prince of India!" he said faintly, in Italian.

The Wanderer bent down to get a nearer view.

"It is the Yellow Air--save me!"

Though hardly articulate, the words were full of light to the listener.

"The virtues of the Pentagram endure," he said, with absolute
self-possession. "The week is not ended, and, lo!--I save him."