A few minutes later there emerged into the crowded streets a young American dressed in a black coat of vaguely clerical cut, with a soft felt hat shading his flushed cheek-bones, and a bead running up and down his nervous throat. The bazaar was already full of a deep holiday rumour, like the rattle of wind in the palm-tops. The young man in the clerical coat, sharply examined as he passed by hundreds of long Arab eyes, slipped into the lanes behind the soukhs, and by circuitous passages gained the neighbourhood of the Great Mosque. His heart was hammering against his black coat, and under the buzz in his brain there boomed out insistently the old question: “What’s the use?” Suddenly, near the fountain that faced one of the doors of the Great Mosque, he saw the figure of a man dressed like himself. The eyes of the two men met across the crowd, and Willard pushed his way to Mr. Blandhorn’s side. “Sir, why did you—why are you—? I’m back—I couldn’t help it,” he gasped out disconnectedly. He had expected a vehement rebuke; but the old missionary only smiled on him sadly. “It was noble of you, Willard.... I understand....” He looked at the young man’s coat. “We had the same thought—again—at the same hour.” He paused, and drew Willard into the empty passage of a ruined building behind the fountain. “But what’s the use,—what’s the use?” he exclaimed. The blood rushed to the young man’s forehead. “Ah—then you feel it too?” Mr. Blandhorn continued, grasping his arm: “I’ve been out—in this dress—ever since you left; I’ve hung about the doors of the Medersas, I’ve walked up to the very threshold of the Mosque, I’ve leaned against the wall of Sidi Oman’s shrine; once the police warned me, and I pretended to go away ... but I came back ... I pushed up closer ... I stood in the doorway of the Mosque, and they saw me ... the people inside saw me ... and no one touched me ... I’m too harmless ... _they don’t believe in me_!” He broke off, and under his struggling eyebrows Willard saw the tears on his old lids. The young man gathered courage. “But don’t you see, sir, that that’s the reason it’s no use? We don’t understand them any more than they do us; they know it, and all our witnessing for Christ will make no difference.” Mr. Blandhorn looked at him sternly. “Young man, no Christian has the right to say that.” Willard ignored the rebuke. “Come home, sir, come home ... it’s no use....” “It was because I foresaw you would take this view that I sent you to Mogador. Since I was right,” exclaimed Mr. Blandhorn, facing round on him fiercely, “how is it you have disobeyed me and come back?”