e ended by Basil's enemy slipping his foot,
and being flung down the steep. I know not whether he was badly hurt or
not, but he gave us no more trouble, vanishing amid the brushwood with
magic speed. His three comrades now showed some disposition to do the
same, but Basil would not let them; he snatched, with a fierce smile,
the gun I had reloaded (yes, I _could_ load a gun, your uncle had taught
me to do that early in our married life), and fired it at the foremost
man, but to my infinite relief, with no deadly effect. The poor fellow,
though slightly wounded, summoned strength to dash over the precipice
and make his escape. The third followed unhurt; only one remained, an
elderly wrinkled man, who, it seemed, knew something of Christian and
civilised usages; he threw down his gun, cast himself at John Popham's
feet, and in an abject, yet piteous tone, exclaimed, "Quarter, quarter,
noble sir; you are no Montenegrin to slay a helpless old man."

Poor John could not make out a word of this appeal, but the cry for
mercy could not be mistaken, and it found an instant response in his
gentle heart. He gave the suppliant a re-assuring nod, and signed to
the astounded Basil that he would not permit him to be touched. Alas,
what availed his kind intentions? I have been told there is no instance
on record of a Black Mountaineer giving quarter to a Mussulman, to such
lengths have ages of oppression goaded a generous people! Seeing the
deadly fire in Basil's eye, I flew to him and plied him with prayers and
angry expostulations. All in vain; he beckoned Spira to lead me away as
one should give over a petted but troublesome child to its nurse, and
deliberately put a pistol to the old man's head. "Now, if this is not
butchery, I don't know what is!" I heard John exclaim; and without a
moment's hesitation, he snatched at the pistol and tried to wrest it
from Basil's grasp. I could not see exactly what passed, but there was
a moment's struggle, then a report, and the ball lodged in John's
breast. Oh, the agony of that moment! words cannot paint, nor thought
realise it! With a loud cry, Basil rushed forward to support Mr
Popham, but I bade him stand back, and he at once obeyed. I contrived
to catch poor John as he fell, and laying his head on my left arm tried
my utmost with the other hand to stanch the blood that flowed from the
wound. It was right to try, but I knew all the while it was perfectly
useless. He sighed on