“_Voici une foule de gens qui vont nous suivre de nouveau, mademoiselle_,” said Azim Bey, as the shopkeepers and their gossips, attracted by the hubbub, joined the crowd and tried to get a glimpse of these generous strangers. At the sound of the unfamiliar tongue they started and looked curiously at the pair, and a quick buzz went round among them. Cecil grasped her pupil’s hand and dragged him on, once more feeling ready to shake him for his foolishness, but it was evident that the men around had understood who they were, for they closed up as if to hustle them. Intent only on escaping, Cecil led her charge down the first turning they reached, and they hurried on breathlessly, through narrow echoing alleys, with houses almost meeting overhead, while behind them came the sound of many feet. The lanes afforded great facilities for eluding a foe, and Cecil and Azim Bey turned and doubled until they were tired. At last they came out on an open space with a well in it, and found their enemies awaiting them--a motley crowd of rough-looking men, with a sprinkling of impish boys and witch-like old women. A yell arose from the crowd as soon as the fugitives were seen, and Cecil turned and fled once more, dragging the boy with her. For a few moments they ran back along the way they had come (no easy task, as any one who has tried to run in loose slippers along a back alley of Baghdad, unpaved and uneven, will confess), then found themselves at a place where two ways met, hesitated, chose one at random, and came face to face with a detachment of their pursuers. They were doubly pursued now, as they turned back and took the other path, and stones and pieces of rubbish began to hurtle through the air. Suddenly Cecil reeled against the wall and loosed her hold of her pupil’s hand. “Go on, Bey,” she gasped, “I am spent. I can’t go any farther, but you may get away. Run on a little--creep into some house and hide. Oh, go, go!” as the yells of the enemy approached. “I shall not go,” returned the boy, stoutly, pulling out a jewelled dagger about three inches long. “I am going to fight for you, mademoiselle, and if they kill you they shall kill me too.” “Come on again, then,” panted Cecil, spurred forward by the fear of causing the death of her gallant little pupil, and she struggled on a few steps farther. Then a stone struck her on the shoulder, and she tottered and clutched at Azim Bey for support. “I can’t go on,” she murmured, and the crowd behind, catching a glimpse of her and guessing her exhausted condition, set up a triumphant yell. Goaded on by the sound, she and her pupil made a last dash round a corner into another lane, where they came face to face with Charlie Egerton, who was walking serenely along, cigar in mouth. “Miss Anstruther!” he gasped, and away went the cigar, and Charlie caught Cecil as she swayed to and fro.