Among the jostling crowds gathered upon the embankment and overlooking the clustered vessels, stood Renny, the Syrian. His gaze was fixed upon the forms of two little children busily occupied in modeling dolls from the plastic Nile mud of the river bank. The children’s occupation had interested him since Renny, the Syrian, was a sculptor. Renny was startled out of his state of artistic introspection by the harsh voices of a number of the foreign sailors. They had jumped ashore from the Tyrian galley and now sought to jostle their way up the steep and crowded bank. While these swarthy adventurers drove in the mooring-stake, Renny’s eyes roamed along the deck of the galley itself. As he gazed at the ordered cases of merchandise, which had but recently been brought up on deck preparatory to their unloading, three figures emerged from a cabin door placed toward the stern of the vessel. Renny instantly decided that the first of the three, a huge man heavily bearded and with a commanding eye and voice of thunder, was the master and probable owner of the vessel. The second was a dainty youth, of a nation unknown to Renny; the third a woman, by her robes a Syrian like himself. The merchant made some remark in a tongue unknown to Renny and, at the same time, pointed shoreward. The trembling youth replied by throwing the long sleeve of his rich robe over his head, a gesture indicative of grief or despair. But Renny was far more interested in the figure of the Syrian, his countrywoman. What heartless parent had sold that drooping figure into harsh captivity? What disastrous war had resulted in her present plight? Or had this hook-nosed Semite filched her from her nest high up above some gentle Syrian valley? The sculptor’s heart ached for her. Thoughts of his own beloved vineyard flashed through his mind. For an instant he visualized the purple hills which encircled Ribba, his native village, the clear blue sky, the sparkling stream, his father’s white-walled house and the little temple which stood, well nigh hidden, near the edge of an ancient grove. Poor little exile! Never had Renny so longed for power, for heavy golden _uten_, as he did at that moment. Instinctively he gripped the single bar that encircled his left wrist. He smiled sadly. Fifty, nay, a hundred such, might not buy her freedom, and this single golden bar represented the fruits of two years’ untiring labor under the patronage of a great, if capricious, noble. Suddenly his gaze riveted itself more intently upon the drooping figure of the Syrian woman. It could not be! Yes! He knew her! ’Twas Bhanar, a maid of Ribba, of Ribba itself, his dear Syrian village! Could his eyes have played him false? He sauntered carelessly toward the Phoenician vessel. Yes! It was Bhanar, playmate of his boyhood, Bhanar whom his dead sister had loved so devotedly.