eneral effect of an obese Crusader of
the early Norman period without his cross.

"Is that Joshua?" said Orme, who was wandering a little again.
"Rummy-looking cock, isn't he? Sergeant, tell Joshua that the walls of
Jericho are down, so there'll be no need to blow his own trumpet. I'm
sure from the look of him that he's a perfect devil with a trumpet."

"What does your companion say?" asked Maqueda again.

I translated the middle part of Orme's remarks, but neither the
commencement nor the end, but even these amused her very much, for she
burst out laughing, and said, pointing to Harmac, over which still hung
a cloud of dust:

"Yes, yes, Joshua, my uncle, the walls of Jericho are down, and the
question is, will you not take your opportunity? So in an hour or two we
shall be dead, or if God goes with us, perhaps free from the menace of
the Fung for years."

The prince Joshua stared at her with his great, prominent eyes, then
answered in a thick, gobbling voice:

"Are you mad, Child of Kings? Of us Abati here there are but five
hundred men, and of the Fung yonder tens of thousands. If we attacked,
they would eat us up. Can five hundred men stand against tens of
thousands?"

"It seems that three stood against them this morning, and worked some
damage, my uncle, but it is true those three are of a different race
from the Abati," she added with bitter sarcasm. Then she turned to those
behind her and cried: "Who of my captains and Council will accompany me,
if I who am but a woman dare to advance on Harmac?"

Now here and there a voice cried, "I will," or some gorgeously dressed
person stepped forward in a hesitating way, and that was all.

"You see, men of the West!" said Maqueda after a little pause,
addressing us three. "I thank you for the great deeds that you have
done and for your counsel. But I cannot take it because my people are
not--warlike," and she covered her face with her hands.

Now there arose a great tumult among her followers, who all began to
talk at once. Joshua in particular drew a large sword and waved it,
shouting out a recital of the desperate actions of his youth and the
names of Fung chieftains whom he alleged he had killed in single combat.

"Told you that fat cur was a first-class trumpeter," said Orme
languidly, while the Sergeant ejaculated in tones of deep disgust:

"Good Lord! what a set. Why, Doctor, they ain't fit to savage a referee
in a London football ground. Pharaoh there in