By the light of the lamp he saw that the poor soul he had rescued, was a sweet-faced Syrian girl, by whose side he had found himself standing on the evening before, when he had stood in the throng on the Temple mount. They had exchanged a few words of ordinary tourist-interchange, and he had been surprised to find that she could speak good English, though with a foreign accent. But realizing now that she needed immediate attention, if she was to be saved from taking a chill, he lit a tiny hand-lamp and carrying it with him to light his way, he went in search of the woman of the house. As recorded on an earlier page, the people with whom he had found lodgment were Christian Syrians--a husband and wife. He went all over the premises, but though he shouted several times, neither the husband or wife answered or appeared. There was no sign of them anywhere. "They were probably caught, as I was, in the storm," he told himself, as he returned to where he had left the rain-soaked Syrian girl. He had a bottle of mixture, which he always carried on Eastern travel, as a preventive of chill. He poured out a little of the warming stuff, and raising the unconscious girl he poured a few drops through her parted lips. She drank by mere instinct. He repeated the experiment, and she caught her breath sharply as she swallowed the second draught. A faint sigh escaped her, her eyelids trembled, and, a moment more they unclosed. At first her gaze was unseeing, then slowly she took in his anxious face. "Where--am--I?" she murmured brokenly. "You are safe, and with friends!" he replied. "I stumbled over you in the road, you had fallen, somehow, in that dreadful thunder-storm." Her eyes met his, and for one long instant she seemed to be searching his face. Then a weak, little smile trembled about her mouth, as she said: "We met last night--I remember I thought how _true_ your face was--I can trust you, I know." A sigh, more of content than aught else, escaped her, and he felt how she let herself rest more fully in his supporting arm. He gave her another sip of the cordial, and she thanked him as some sweet child might have done. For a moment she lay silent and still, then she spoke again, in a vague, speculative way, as though she was searching her mind for the clue: "Ah, yes, I remember now. The great darkness came on, after those good men of God had spoken. And the crowd got frightened and ran hither and thither,--to find their homes, I suppose--and in the darkness some rushed against me, knocked me down, and--and--" She shuddered, as she added, "I believe some others kicked me and trampled upon me, and--" "Are you hurt?" he cried anxiously. "Do you feel as if any bone was broken, anywhere?" She smiled back into his anxious face: "Hurt? not much! Certainly no bones are broken. But I feel bruised and sore, and--so--" She shivered, as she added: "so cold!"