At night, under the stars, Jack and Kaspar resumed their conversation. They were very comfortable; the Irish steward brought them rugs and cushions, and lingered to say he was glad the gentlemen and the young lady had got away from "thim murtherin' brutes of Turks. I was in Constantinople last September," said he, "and, by the Powers, Oliver Cromwell himself was a thrifle to thim!" "And I wish we had Oliver Cromwell here to deal with them now!" Jack said, with juster views of history. The great ship was ploughing easily and steadily through calm waters. All around and all about them reigned sleep and rest. It was a good time to talk of past perils and to enjoy present security. "How could you say your life was saved through me?" John Grayson asked. "I must tell you first why I was not killed with the rest," answered Kaspar. "That was horrible. All the rest were dead, even Thomassian; but they took me back again to the prison. There they brought me a paper to sign, setting forth that the men who had been executed were convicted of a plot to attack the mosques and murder the Moslems at their Service on Friday. If I signed, they promised me life, and without the condition of renouncing my faith." "And you?" "Was I going to take the crown from the heads of the martyrs of God, and fling it down to the dust to be trampled on like that? They urged me, arguing that these men were all dead, so that nothing I could say or sign could do them any harm, whereas, if I refused, they--the Turks--could do me a great deal of harm, which was certainly true." "And then?"