than ever, for we were
looked upon as the recipients of the highest honor that could fall to
any of the Kosekin--namely, the envied dignity of a public death. As
we embarked the whole city lined the public ways, and watched us from
the quays, from boats, and from other galleys. Songs were sung by a
chosen choir of paupers, and to the sound of this plaintive strain we
moved out to sea.

"This will be a great journey for me," said the Kohen, as we left the
port. "I hope to be made a pauper at least, and perhaps gain the honor
of a public death. I have known people who have gained death for less.
There was an Athon last year who attacked a pehmet with forty men
and one hundred and twenty rowers. All were killed or drowned except
himself. In reward for this he gained the mudecheb, or death
recompense. In addition to this he was set apart for the Mista Kosek."

"Then, with you, when a man procures the death of others he is
honored?"

"Why, yes; how could it be otherwise?" said the Kohen. "Is it not the
same with you? Have you not told me incredible things about your
people, among which there were a few that seemed natural and
intelligible? Among these was your system of honoring above all men
those who procure the death of the largest number. You, with your
pretended fear of death, wish to meet it in battle as eagerly as we
do, and your most renowned men are those who have sent most to death."

To this strange remark I had no answer to make.

The air out at sea now grew chillier. The Kohen noticed it also, and
offered me his cloak, which I refused. He seemed surprised, and
smiled.

"You are growing like one of us," said he. "You will soon learn that
the greatest happiness in life is to do good to others and sacrifice
yourself. You already show this in part. When you are with Almah you
act like one of the Kosekin. You watch her to see and anticipate her
slightest wish; you are eager to give her everything. She, on the
other hand, is equally eager to give up all to you. Each one of you is
willing to lay down life for the other. You would gladly rush upon
death to save her from harm, much as you pretend to fear death; and so
I see that with Almah you will soon learn how sweet a thing death may
be."

"To live without her," said I, "would be so bitter that death with her
would indeed be sweet. If I could save her life by laying down my own,
death would be sweeter still; and not one of you Kosekin would meet it
so gladly