Then, despite his appeals, I returned to the body with eyes fixed on the arrow-slits, ready to flee at sight or sound. But nothing moved nor stirred. I studied the arrow again, and then tried to pull it out. It was of unfamiliar type, and might give the key to much. But I could not draw it forth, and so was forced to put my knee upon the dead man’s chest, when presently, with some exertion of strength, I pulled it through. It had been shot from behind, and, entering to one side of the spine, stood out a foot and more beyond the throat. As I stood holding it in my hand there was a crash like thunder, and I leapt across the open space like a deer to the cloud of smoke where Islam crouched behind a rock holding his smoking piece. “Something moved in that slit,” he gasped, and turned to flee. Discretion seemed the better part of valour, and I followed him down the narrow waterway, splashing through the little pools, leaping from stone to stone. But still I wonder whether he truly saw anything, or if his fancies overcame him. By the entrance we found Arslan, who had heard not the shot, peacefully preparing food by the camels. Islam contrived to scare him into the same unreasoning frame of mind as himself. Although I desired much to remain, there was no staying them, nor could I continue there by myself. Also, there was some reason, doubtless, in their arguments, three men against a savage tribe; ’twas poor odds in our favour. Speedily we roped up our gear and once more set out across the desert, as I judged, in the direction whence we had come. Ploughing through the sand, I pondered over the events of the morning, but nothing could I understand. Of one thing alone I was assured, that the dead man was of some people I had never met in Asia. There are fair-skinned people a many there, but none to compare with him I had seen. Could he, perchance, have been a European? But had such a one been in the country, I must surely have heard of him. Save for myself, no European had been known up there. When we halted that night, I studied the lettered arrow again, for the lettering seemed familiar. Finally, I recognized the unfamiliar script--the letters were Greek. My studies had long since fled, but there was no mistaking some of the letters, for not knowing the which my father had ofttimes caned me. I was clear bewildered by now. What folk could these be in the heart of the great desert with arrows lettered in Greek? As I write, the arrow is by me, sole token of my journey, sole witness of my tale. The men were very silent that night, and their one thought seemed to be to put as many miles of sand as possible between themselves and the ill-omened cliff that faded behind us against the darkling sky.