second word that Harry Bullivant scribbled.'

'_Cancer_?' I asked.

'Yes. It means just what it reads and no more. Greenmantle is
dying--has been dying for months. This afternoon they brought a German
doctor to see him, and the man gave him a few hours of life. By now he
may be dead.'

The news was a staggerer. For a moment I thought it cleared up things.
'Then that busts the show,' I said. 'You can't have a crusade without
a prophet.'

'I wish I thought it did. It's the end of one stage, but the start of
a new and blacker one. Do you think that woman will be beaten by such
a small thing as the death of her prophet? She'll find a
substitute--one of the four Ministers, or someone else. She's a devil
incarnate, but she has the soul of a Napoleon. The big danger is only
beginning.'

Then he told me the story of his recent doings. He had found out the
house of Frau von Einem without much trouble, and had performed with
his ragamuffins in the servants' quarters. The prophet had a large
retinue, and the fame of his minstrels--for the Companions were known
far and wide in the land of Islam--came speedily to the ears of the
Holy Ones. Sandy, a leader in this most orthodox coterie, was taken
into favour and brought to the notice of the four Ministers. He and
his half-dozen retainers became inmates of the villa, and Sandy, from
his knowledge of Islamic lore and his ostentatious piety, was admitted
to the confidence of the household. Frau von Einem welcomed him as an
ally, for the Companions had been the most devoted propagandists of the
new revelation.

As he described it, it was a strange business. Greenmantle was dying
and often in great pain, but he struggled to meet the demands of his
protectress. The four Ministers, as Sandy saw them, were unworldly
ascetics; the prophet himself was a saint, though a practical saint
with some notions of policy; but the controlling brain and will were
those of the lady. Sandy seemed to have won his favour, even his
affection. He spoke of him with a kind of desperate pity.

'I never saw such a man. He is the greatest gentleman you can picture,
with a dignity like a high mountain. He is a dreamer and a poet,
too--a genius if I can judge these things. I think I can assess him
rightly, for I know something of the soul of the East, but it would be
too long a story to tell now. The West knows nothing of the true
Oriental. It pictures him as lapped in colour and idl