"Captain," shouted a Turk from his following, "the Giaour is lying. He is no English Effendi, but an Armenian of Urfa. I saw his face that day there was fighting. He had a revolver in his hand, and shot true Believers with it." "Is that so? Then he goes to the Kadi," said the Captain, his momentary hesitation at an end. "Bind him, men, in the Name of Allah, the Merciful. You are an impudent liar, like all your race," he said to Jack, turning away with a curse. Jack hoped he might be able to speak to the priest; but this boon was denied him. He was placed at the other end of the file of captives. The man to whom he was bound seemed either afraid, or too thoroughly crushed and dejected to speak to him. His own state of mind was not enviable. His first feeling was that he had failed. He meant to do such great things; he had gone forth full of hope and courage, as one who should work a great deliverance in the earth. And now?--and now?--What would they all feel, all the friends who loved and trusted him so? They would be waiting, wondering, speculating about his fate. Their anxiety would change into suspense, their suspense would deepen at last into sad certainty. Yet, most likely, there would be none to tell of his fate. And Shushan? The thought of her sorrow swallowed up all other thoughts, all other regrets. And Shushan? For her dear sake he would not give up hope, he would struggle on even to the end. His English name and his English race might save him yet. Not likely, after those fatal shots. Meanwhile, at the present moment, where was he? Whither was he going? All the stories which, in the last five years, he had heard spoken with bated breath of the horrors of Turkish prisons rushed like a sea of bitter waters over his soul. They brought with them a sensation absolutely new to him--utter, unreasoning, overpowering _fear_. Terror and anguish took hold on him; large drops, like the touch of cold fingers, stood upon his forehead; he shivered from head to foot. He had faced death before this, and it had seemed to him but a light thing. "After that, no more that they can do." After that; but how much before--oh, God of mercy, how much before! All at once Stepanian's voice seemed sounding in his ears. "You must trust God utterly." Wherever they might bring him, whatever they might do with him, _God would be there_. He could not get out of that Presence, nor could they. A thrill shot through him of hope restored and strength renewed; a vision of conflict over, and victory won at last. As a cry "unto One that hears," his prayer went up: "Oh, God of my fathers, I beseech Thee, suffer me not through any pains of death to fall from Thee. Suffer me not to deny my faith, nor yet to accuse my brethren, in the Name of Christ, my Redeemer!"