funny, Zan. A big strong wrestler like that to be foolish
over a very little woman. And for a cheap showman of the market-place to
be lifting his eyes to a daughter of the Druse emirs. It is funny."

"It isn't funny. And he isn't much of a wrestler anyway."

"Oh, but he is, Zan. He is a very great wrestler. They say he threw and
killed a bear."

"O kooltooluk. Hell! I could throw him myself."

She said nothing, turning her head, and reaching for her embroidery.

"Don't you believe me, Fenzile? I tell you I could make mince-meat of
him."

"Of course, Zan. Of course you could." And she smiled. But this time it
wasn't the delighted smile of a child. It was the grave patient smile of
a wise woman. And Shane knew it. Past that barrier he could not break.
And on her belief he could make no impress. There was no use arguing,
talking. She would just smile and agree. And her ideal of strength and
power would be the muscle-bound hulk of the Aleppo man, with the girl's
face and the girl's eyes, and the rose in his hand. And Shane, all his
life inured to sport, hard as iron, supple as a whip, with his science
picked up from Swedish quartermasters and Japanese gendarmes, from mates
and crimps in all parts of the world, would always be in her eyes an
infant compared to the monstrous Syrian! Not that it mattered a tinker's
curse, but--

Oh, damn the wrestler from Aleppo!

Section 3

He had thought, when he left Liverpool on a gusty February day, of all
the peace and quiet, of the color and life there would be on the Asian
shore ... Europe had somehow particularly sickened him on this last
voyage.... All its repose was sordid, all its passion was calculated.
England and its queen mourned the sudden death of the prince consort,
but it mourned him with a sort of middle-class domesticity, and no
majesty. So a grocer's family might have mourned, remembering how well
papa cut the mutton.... He was so damned good at everything, Albert was,
and he approved of art and science--within reason.... There was a
contest for a human ideal in America, and in the ports of England
privateers were being fitted out, to help the South, as the Greeks
might, for a price.... And Napoleon, that solemn comedian, was making
ready his expedition to Mexico, with fine words and a tradesman's
cunning.... And the drums of Ulster roared for Garibaldi, rejoicing in
the downfall of the harlot on seven hills, as Ulster pleasantly
considered the papal states