as he brushes past quickly raises his hand to snatch aside the flowing
vail.

Again his heart almost stands still, and the sacred word "mother"
trembles on his lips, as he bends forward to get a quick glance of the
face that must be disclosed by the shifting of the vail.

His quick movement is not without its result. The vail is drawn aside,
and John Craig receives a staggering blow as he gazes upon the
shriveled countenance of an old woman.

It is impossible that this can be his mother--perish the thought!--and
yet the garb is one seldom seen on the streets of Algiers.

His almost palsied hand drops the vail. Lucky for him will it be if no
jealous Moor's eyes have seen the action.

The Sister does not cry out, and call upon those who are present to
avenge the insult--even had she been a Moorish lady, the demand for
punishment would not come from her, but from those of the sterner sex
near-by.

Instead, she stands there as if waiting for him to speak--stands there
like a statue in black.

John at once apologizes for his rudeness--he is already sorry for what
he has done.

"Madame, pardon. I believed you were one very dear to me, one who wears
the insignia of your order, one for whom I have searched far and near,
half the world over--my mother."

"It was a bold act, young sir, but far be it from me to denounce you.
Tell me, how would you know this mother?" she asks, in a thick voice.

"She is known as Sister Magdalen--perhaps you know her--she may even be
staying at the same convent as yourself," eagerly.

"I know one Sister Magdalen, a sweet, quiet woman, lately from Malta,
whither she went to consult the head of our order."

Her words arouse John.

"It is she. If you would only take me to her, I would at once be rid of
all these doubts and fears."

"Would you come?"

John has forgotten the warning of Mustapha, forgotten all former
experiences. There is a crowd gathering around them, and this is one of
the things he was to guard against, still he pays little attention to
this fact, his mind is so bent upon accomplishing his object.

"Eagerly. Once this night I have risked much to find my mother, and I am
ready to do more."

"Then follow me. Better still, walk at my side, for I see ugly faces
around. You have made enemies, but I will stand between. My garb is
sacred, and they will respect it."

"I am ready, lead on."

What is this that plucks at his sleeve? He half-turns impatiently, and
looks i