of a whip. A
Cornish wrestler would turn him inside out within a minute; a Japanese
would pitch him like a ball before he had even taken his stance. But
once he had a grip he would be irresistible.

"So that's Ahmet Ali."

"Yes, Zan," Fenzile clapped her hands with delight, like a child seeing
a circus procession. "Oh, he is a great wrestler. He beat Yussuf
Hussein, the Cairene, and he beat a great Russian wrestler who came on a
pilgrimage to Jerusalem. And he beat a French sailor. And he beat a
Tartar. Oh, he is a great wrestler, Ahmet Ali."

The wrestler had come nearer. Behind him came four or five supporters,
in cloth white as his. Behind them came a ruck of Syrian youths,
effeminate, vicious. Came a croud of donkey-boys, impish, black. The
wrestler walked more slowly as he approached to pass the iron doors. And
Shane was startled into a sudden smile at the sight of his face--a
girl's face, with a girl's eyes. And in his hand was a rose. A wrestler
with a rose!

"Why, a man could kill him."

"Oh, no! Oh, no, Zan!" Fenzile said. "He is very strong. He conquered
Yussuf Hussein, the Cairene, and Yussuf Hussein could bend horseshoes
with his bare hands. He is very strong, very powerful Ahmet Ali."

The wrestler was walking slowly past the house throwing glances through
the grill with his full girl's eyes. A quick suspicion came into
Campbell's mind. He turned to his wife.

"Does he come past here often?"

"Yes, yes, Zan. Every day."

"Does he stop and look into the court like that, every time?"

"Yes, Zan. Every time," she smiled.

"Do you know whom he's looking for?"

"Yes, Zan. For me."

Campbell's hand shot out suddenly and caught her wrist.

"Fenzile," his voice was cold. "You aren't carrying on with, encouraging
this--Ahmet Ali?"

"Zan Cam'el," her child's eyes flashed unexpectedly. "I am no cheap
Cairene woman. I am a Druse girl. The daughter of a Druse Bey."

"I am sorry, Fenzile."

She looked at him steadily with her great green eyes, green of the sea,
and as he looked at her sweet roundish face, her little mouth half open
in sincerity, her calm brow, her brown arch of eyebrow, she seemed to
him no more than a beautiful proud child. There was no guile in her.

"You mustn't be foolish, you know, Fenzile."

"_Severim Seni._ I love only you, Zan. But it is so funny to see him go
by, I must always smile. Don't you think it funny, Zan?"

"No, I don't think it at all funny."

"Oh, but it is