Raie was delighted, and having obtained permission, went to get ready forthwith. An hour later they were being driven through the densely thronged streets. The festivities had taken a more hilarious turn, but there was nothing riotous in the behaviour of any of the people. When the Jew rejoices as a religious duty, he does it with his whole heart; but as he is not addicted to drink, he is able to keep his merriment within bounds. The throwing of the modern confetti and the trampling underfoot of Haman’s effigies constituted the chief source of amusement. Indoors the better-class families were celebrating the occasion by a grand Purim feast. Arrived at the summit of the mount, they found the hotel in a state of confusion. A tourist—arrived only that day—had been attacked by an Arab in one of the caves, and—it was said—lay in a critical condition. It was the first time for many years that an outrage had been committed so near the town. The Princess was much concerned, for she had made the acquaintance of the tourist in question immediately after his arrival. “His name is Frank Merryweather, and he comes from Australia,” she said to Raie, who was always anxious for information. “He is one of the finest men I have ever seen.” “He is not a Jew?” affirmed the girl, with interrogation. “I am not sure. He is the sort of man one can’t easily place; but as he spoke of going on to England shortly, I suppose he is not.” Later in the evening, the physician, who happened to be staying in the hotel, informed them that his patient’s wound was not so serious as had been feared. The next morning the patient himself was brought up to the roof-garden to enjoy the air before the heat of the day. The Princess and her friend were up early, and found him propped up on a couch beneath a shady palm. The air was fragrant with the breath of tropical flowers, and was made melodious by the sweet carolling of the birds. The sick man lay with his eyes closed, but he opened them as he heard the rustling of a woman’s dress. His glance first fell on the stately figure of the Princess, and his features relaxed in greeting. Then he looked at Raie, who, in a simple linen gown which suited her well, might have stood for a picture of perfect girlhood. “Miss Emanuel, Mr. Merryweather,” said the Princess; and Raie shook hands with a new tinge of colour in her cheeks. Then an almost involuntary look passed between them—the intuitive sign when Jew meets Jew. “We were distressed to hear of your accident last night,” the Princess said, as they took their seats beside him. “Do tell us about it. Do you feel better this morning?”