A group of Moslems were loitering idly beside the beautiful Pool of Abraham, watching the sacred fish and feeding them with crumbs and corn. They were talking over the events of the last few days. Some of them--who would not have hurt one of those little fishes for any consideration--were boasting how many Christian dogs they had killed, or detailing yet more horrible deeds of devotion and of prowess. "But now," observed one of them, "we are not to kill any more. The '_Paydoss_' has gone forth." "Truth to say," another answered, "there are but few left to kill. And those are mostly old women and little children." "It were well," a third remarked, "to take some order about the burying, and that quickly, or we shall have a pestilence among us, and true Believers have no charm against that any more than Christians. Allah, who comes here?" A weird, ghastly figure strode in amongst them, coming down to the very margin of the pool. His clothing was scorched and torn, his hair grey--almost white--and his hollow cheeks and wasted face gave the more awful expressiveness to large eyes full of horror. He looked down into the bright, pure waters of the Pool. "Much water there," he said; "but it will not put out the fire. There is nothing will put that out, for ever and for ever." One tried to lay hands on him, another drew a dagger. But his pale lips only curled with a scornful smile. "You cannot kill me," he said; "I am an Englishman. There is a mark set upon me that no man may hurt me. It means, 'He saved himself: others he did not save.'" "Put that up," said one of the Turks to his comrade with the dagger. "Do you not see the man is mad?" Moslems think it wrong to kill a madman; they even honour him, as one inspired by Allah. Nor does their law allow them to receive a madman as a convert to Islam. "Englishman?" another queried. "Nonsense about Englishmen! There are no Englishmen here." "That, no doubt, is part of his madness. He is a Giaour, whom it is the will of Allah to save alive." A young man, dressed _à la Frank_, joined the group. "Whom have you got here?" he asked. "Some Giaour, driven mad by the loss of his friends," answered one of the others. The Giaour turned, and looked the new comer steadily in the face. The Turk looked at him, with a perplexed, bewildered air. "Osman Effendi, how many Giaours have _you_ killed?" the Christian asked. "_One_," Osman answered. "But he was a prince amongst them. It was enough. Madman, I seem to know your eyes. Who are you?" He gave him another long, scrutinizing look. Then he said with a start, "Can it be? Is it possible? Are you Grayson Effendi? How have you come here? I sought for you; and heard you had gone to the church. Then I gave you up for lost." "I _am_ lost," Jack said. "Nay, friend, you are saved, thanks to Allah the Compassionate. But how, in His Name, did you get out?"