the sketching things he was wont to leave in
charge of the doorkeeper. With those in his hands he hurried forth
again, glad to escape the negro's friendly grin.

CHAPTER X

Half-blind with tears and rendered witless by despair, Iskender had
walked half the distance to his mother's house before he realised that
he had no desire to go there. A pool of shade by the roadside
inviting, he sat down in it, and gave the rein to grief. It was with a
mild surprise that, when his sense returned, he found himself under the
ilex-tree before the little church which Mitri served. Afraid of
interruption he looked round uneasily. But no one was in sight, and he
was loth to move. He opened his sketch-book for a suggestion of
employment in case any one should espy him, and returned to sorrow.

From the group of hovels close at hand came women's voices and the
cluck of hens; over his head, among the branches of the oak-tree, doves
were cooing. The plumes of the two palm-trees hung dead still amid the
sunshine! the shade in which he sat was quite unruffled. A train of
camels sauntered by along the sandy road, with clanging bells, their
driver chanting softly to himself. Iskender's heart went out in
yearning to the peaceful scene. He envied the dwellers in those low
mud-hovels, who led their simple lives with praise to Allah; envied the
poor camel-driver singing in the sunshine as he jogged along. Alas for
him, he had no part with these, but was a Protestant, a stranger in his
native land, a monstrous creation of those English who had cast him
off, a byword, a bad joke. The iridescent plumage of some pigeons,
which, emboldened by his stillness, came strutting and pecking on the
ground before him, drew his gaze; and, half-unconsciously, he began to
trace their likeness on the page before him. While thus engaged he
heard a stealthy tread behind him, and felt a breath on his neck as
some one leaned above him to inspect his work. In a flash he
remembered the beautiful child, the daughter of Mitri, and his heart
beat fiercely. The violent change of emotion paralysed him for some
seconds; then he turned round suddenly and made a grab. The girl
suppressed a scream, and tried to run, but he had caught her arm. With
joyful eagerness, though the tears of despair were still wet on his
face, he pleaded:

"Why wouldst fly from me, my soul? Why art thou here if not to talk
with me?"

"The picture," she murmured angrily, pulli