He tried to cheer. It was the duty of a true son of old Fardale to cheer as long as the breath of life remained in his body. Once more that sound of mocking laughter reached him. Again he opened his eyes. He saw no comrades in red and black. He saw no stand packed with cheering cadets. Again he beheld the gray buildings of the dirty street. Again he saw those leering faces and grinning mouths all around him. “It’s a nightmare!” he whispered. “I must break the spell! I must move!” He made a mighty effort, and, in spite of the pain, rolled over on his side. The old man came up and kicked him back into his former position. “Wait!” thought the boy—“wait till I get up, you dirty wretch! You’ll not wipe your feet on me after that!” One of the crowd spat at him and called him a filthy infidel. “I’ll try to remember you, also!” said Dick to himself. Weakly he lifted his hands to his neck. It was paining him frightfully, and he seemed to feel marks upon it, as if something had left indelible prints in the flesh. “I’m not in Fardale,” he thought. “I’m somewhere—somewhere—somewhere far away. Where am I? and how did I get here?” The pressure on his head prevented him from thinking. He felt to see if an iron band were truly crushing his skull. He could find nothing of the sort. “I must get up! I must! I will!” They laughed and called to him as he lifted himself little by little to his elbow. At last, with his hands on the ground and his body lurched to one side, like a man wounded unto death, he paused, breathing with a horrible, whistling sound. “Strength—I must have strength!” he thought. “If I give up the least bit, I’ll drop back here and never rise again.” So he waited until a little more strength came to him. He seemed to summon it by his indomitable and unyielding will. He heard the rabble chattering about him, but he no longer heeded them. “The ocean liner—England—Italy—Constantinople!” He was beginning to remember. “Where is Brad? Where is the professor?” He straightened up, in spite of all the pain it cost him. He shifted until he was on his hands and knees. The old man, grinning maliciously, again hastened forward and lifted his foot, intending to kick the boy over. “Stay!” It was a single word of command, but it was spoken in a tone that caused the man to pause. Through the crowd strode a man with a dark face and a black beard that was threaded with gray. He was dressed in garments that seemed to proclaim him a person of more than common rank. He advanced and bent over the lad, whom he lifted to a standing position, supporting him with one arm. “Boy,” he demanded, “what does it mean? Tell me what has happened to thee and to the beautiful maiden.” “The—the beautiful maiden?” muttered Dick. “You mean—you mean—Nadia?” Then he remembered, and the shock caused him to straighten up stiffly. He turned and looked into the face of Ras al Had. “You—you treacherous snake!” he panted.