Eileen, finding the air stifling, had walked on in the direction of the less crowded street above. Thus it happened that she, and the poor old porter, alone, were in the path of the onward-whirling carriage. Many women so placed would have stood, frozen with horror, have been struck down by the frantic animal; some would have had sufficient presence of mind to gain the only shelter attainable in time--that of a deep-set doorway. Few would have acted as Eileen acted. It was under the stimulus of that Celtic impetuosity--that generous madness which seems to proceed, not from the mind, but from the heart--that she leapt, not back, but forward. She never knew exactly what took place, nor how she escaped destruction; but there was a roaring in her ears, above it rising the Teutonic screams of the lady in the _arabeeyeh_; there was a confused chorus of voices, a consciousness of effort; and she found herself, with wildly beating heart, crouching back into the recess which once had held a _mastabah_. From some place invisible, around a bend in the tortuous street, came sounds of shouting and that of lashing hoofs. The runaway was stopped. At her feet lay a shapeless bundle wrapped in a blue cloth, and beside her, leaning back against the whitewashed wall, and breathing with short, sobbing breaths, was the old porter. Now, her husband had his arms about her, and Mohammed, with frightened eyes, hovered in the background. Without undue haste, all the bazaar gradually was coming upon the scene. "My darling, are you hurt?" John Graham's voice shook. He was deathly pale. Eileen smiled reassuringly. "Not a bit, dear," she said breathlessly. "But I am afraid the poor old man is." "You are quite sure you are not hurt?" "I was not so much as touched, though honestly I don't know how either of us escaped. But do see if the old man is injured." Graham turned to the rescued porter, who now had recovered his composure. "Mohammed, ask him if he is hurt," he directed. Mohammed put the question. A curious group surrounded the party. But the old man, ignoring all, knelt and bowed his bare head to the dust at Eileen's feet. "Oh, John," cried the girl, "ask him to stand up! I feel ashamed to see such a venerable old man kneeling before me!" "Tell him it is--nothing," said Graham hastily to Mohammed, "and--er----"--he fumbled in his pocket--"give him this." But Mohammed, looking ill at ease, thrust aside the proffered _bakshîsh_--a novel action which made Graham stare widely. "He would not take it, Effendi," he whispered. "See, his turban lies there; he is a _hadj_. He is praying for the eternal happiness of his preserver, and he is interceding with the Prophet (_Salla--'lláhu 'aleyhi wasellum_), that she may enjoy the delights of Paradise equally with all true Believers!" "Very good of him," said Graham, who, finding the danger passed and his wife safe, was beginning to feel embarrassed. "Thank him, and tell him that she is greatly indebted!"