im, with his attendants and hangers-on. The wrestler
drew aside with his insolent smile. Campbell's temper broke loose.

"Listen, O certain person," he insulted the Aleppo man, "there is a
street in Beirut down which it does not please me to see you go."

"Will the foreign gentleman tell me," the wrestler's voice drawled, and
he smelled his rose, "who will stop a Moslem from going down a Moslem
street?"

"By God, I would!" The Syrians of Ahmet Ali's escort gathered around,
smiling.

"The foreign gentleman forgets that I am the wrestler from Aleppo."

"Just so. I happen to be a bit of a wrestler myself."

"Some day perhaps the foreign gentleman will condescend to try a fall
with me."

Syrians, Egyptians, Turks, were pouring from all quarters. Six French
soldiers, walking gapingly along the bazaars, stopped wonderingly.

"Dites, les soldats," Shane called. "Vous ne voulez pas voir quelque
chose d'interessant?"

"Mais si, Monsieur!"

"Eh bien, je vais lutter contre l'homme avec la rose. C'est un lutteur
arabe. Voulez-vous-y assister?"

"Mais, pour bien sur, Monsieur."

"All right, then, by God!" Shane looked square at Ahmet Ali. "We'll
wrestle right here and now."

"But the stones, the street," Ahmet Ali looked surprised. "You might get
hurt."

"We'll wrestle here and now."

"Oh, all right." The Arab lifted an expressive shoulder. Carefully he
removed the great white robe and handed it to an attendant. To another
he gave the rose. Shane handed his coat and hat to a saturnine French
corporal. Ahmet Ali took his shirt off. Kicked away his sandals. There
was the dramatic appearance of an immense bronze torso. The Syrians
smiled. The French soldiers looked judicially grave. Ahmet Ali stood
talking for an instant with one of his men, a lean bilious-seeming Turk.
The Turk was urging something with eagerness. The wrestler's soft girl's
face had concentrated into a mask of distaste. He was shaking his head.
He didn't like something.

"How God-damned long are you going to keep me here?"

Ahmet turned. There was a smile on his face, as of amused, embarrassed
toleration. He was like a great athlete about to box with a small boy.
And the boy in earnest.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Any time," Shane snapped.

"All right."

Very easily he came forward over the cobbled street. He was like some
immense bronze come suddenly to life and shambling. Like the brazen
servant Thomas Aquinas made under the influence of parti