Um Yusuf’s own fears were of a darker nature, but she was wise enough to keep silence concerning them, and presently her mind became engrossed with the thought of the peril into which she and her mistress were running by leaving the town unattended. True, almost every foot of the winding path which led to the Nestorian village was under the eye of the watchman at the town-gate, and also of the Turkish sentinels at the fort, but the untoward events of the journey, and the alarms of the last few weeks, would have shaken the nerves of most people, and Um Yusuf’s imagination conjured up lurking Kurds behind every rock. More than once she was on the point of declaring her conviction that Latifeh Kalfa’s whole story was a fraud, invented for the very purpose of decoying Cecil out in this way, that she might fall into the hands of the Kurdish raiders; but the certainty that, even if she turned back, her mistress would infallibly go on alone, kept her silent, and she followed on in the spirit of a martyr, casting timid glances on either side. Fervently she longed for the protection of Masûd and his stout cudgel, but neither was at hand. Her greatest trial was still to come, for at the foot of the hill a man rose suddenly from the shelter of a clump of bushes and ran towards them. Um Yusuf screamed and clutched Cecil’s arm. “It is only a beggar,” said Cecil, quickly; and indeed the shrunken form in its multi-coloured rags could scarcely have been considered formidable in any case. As he reached them the man tore off the _kaffiyeh_ which enveloped his head, disclosing a face at sight of which both women started and turned pale. The wasted features were those of Hanna, the Armenian lad who had been Charlie Egerton’s servant at Baghdad, and had accompanied him on his foolhardy adventure. “O luckless one!” screamed Um Yusuf, finding her tongue first, “what evil fate has befallen thee? Where is thy master?” “What is that to do with thee?” demanded Hanna. “I am here with a message from him to thy lady.” “Tell me quickly,” cried Cecil, “is he ill? in prison?” “He had no time to write,” pursued Hanna, evasively, “but I have carried his words.” “But is he--is he----” gasped Cecil. “He is not dead?” “O my lady, he is dead. I am come unto thee with the last words he said.” “Go on,” said Cecil, hoarsely, her tearless eyes searching the man’s face.