In the market place he passed little groups that stood talking around their merchandise spread out on the ground, but he had no time this morning for sauntering in and out of the motley gathering. When he reached the fountain, it was exactly eleven o'clock but there was no sign of Ali. So dismounting, John slung the rein over his arm and waited. A number of dusty _arabyas_ rattled by, evidently coming in from Marsovan. Two Circassians, their coloured waist-bands gleaming with dagger handles, and long breeched revolvers, rode up to the fountain to water their horses, two superb animals which these wild men rode as if born in the saddle. With characteristic insolence they pushed away a Turk who was watering his mule, and the angry old fellow went off waving his arms and leaving a stream of abuse behind him. It was very hot and the increasing heat made John realise that it must be getting near noon. There was still no sign of Ali, but John dared not wait any longer, for he knew the penalty he would have to pay if his escapade were discovered. So mounting his pony, he gave it a flick with his whip and started off at a sharp canter on the way home. But he had not gone far before he became aware of a great commotion in front of him where the street narrowed just at the entrance to the bazaar. A crowd of loose-cloaked Turks were seething towards the door, and a frantic yelling broke on the boy's ears as he approached. Impelled by curiosity he urged his pony forward and soon reached the fringe of the mob. As he did so a Turk caught hold of his rein and forced the pony back on its haunches. The frightened animal immediately wheeled and kicked out, scattering the dense crowd left and right, and when the boy had managed to rein in his frightened mount, he saw that he was hemmed in by the crowd, with his back to the wall. Even then he was not aware of the danger in which he stood, but at his side in a heap, huddled against the wall, was a figure. Hastily looking down John saw it was a man. One glance told him that the Armenian was dead, and as he stared at the corpse, with its bloodstained tunic, the yelling broke loose again, and the crowd surged up towards him. From the bazaar door another Armenian came out. Before the man saw his peril, his retreat was cut off, and he flung himself behind the pony and the boy. Mounted on his saddle, John's head was just above those of the crowd, and as he looked down upon the scowling angry mob, his heart thumped in his chest.