ts of bronze had fallen.

It apparently had not been made to represent any benign Chinese god;
the aspect of the yellow figure was anything but benevolent. The
features were terrific; scowls infested its grotesque countenance;
threatening brows bent inward; angry eyes rolled in apparent fury; its
double gesture with sword and javelin was violent and almost
humorously menacing. And Ruhannah adored it.

For a little while the child played her usual game of frightening her
doll with the Yellow Devil and then rescuing her by the aid of a fairy
prince which she herself had designed, smeared with water-colours, and
cut out with scissors from a piece of cardboard.

After a time she turned to the remaining treasures in the wonder-box.
These consisted of several volumes containing photographs, others full
of sketches in pencil and water-colour, and a thick roll of glazed
linen scrolls covered with designs in India ink.

The photographs were of all sorts--landscapes, rivers, ships in dock,
dry dock, and at sea; lighthouses, forts, horses carrying soldiers
armed with lances and wearing the red fez; artillery on the march,
infantry, groups of officers, all wearing the same sort of fez which
lay there in Herr Wilner's box of olive wood.

There were drawings, too--sketches of cannon, of rifles, of swords;
drawings of soldiers in various gay uniforms, all carefully coloured
by hand. There were pictures of ships, from the sterns of which the
crescent flag floated lazily; sketches of great, ugly-looking objects
which her father explained were Turkish ironclads. The name "ironclad"
always sounded menacing and formidable to the child, and the
forbidding pictures fascinated her.

Then there were scores and scores of scrolls made out of slippery
white linen, on which had been drawn all sorts of most amazing
geometrical designs in ink.

"Plans," her father explained vaguely. And, when pressed by reiterated
questions: "Plans for military works, I believe--forts, docks,
barracks, fortified cuts and bridges. You are not yet quite old enough
to understand, Ruhannah."

"Who did draw them, daddy?"

"A German friend of mine, Herr Conrad Wilner."

"What for?"

"I think his master sent him to Turkey to make those pictures."

"For the Sultan?"

"No; for his Emperor."

"Why?"

"I don't exactly know, Rue."

At this stage of the conversation her father usually laid aside his
book and composed himself for the inevitable narrative soo