Goats were killed, a skin of native wine was produced by the revolutionists, there was a profusion of vegetables from their garden plots, and the mingled Athensians and Arabs made merry, Mr. Hampton, the two boys and Roy Stone, sitting at one side of the great fire, in the light of which stood out not only the startling faces of Athensians and Arabs but also the many-pillared front of an ancient temple at their backs, looked on in delight at the scene. They were talking over plans for the rescue of Bob, and examining the map of Athensi drawn by Amrath. But even in the absorption of this pursuit, one or other would now and again lift his eyes to gaze in artistic appreciation at the strange sight. Finally, even the map was put away, and the four turned all their attention to their surroundings, for Akmet had been persuaded by his fellows to tell a story and, once he began, although his language was understood only by his fellows, the Athensians and the Americans alike fell under the magic of his spell. Many times before, at night encampments, Mr. Hampton and the boys had heard Akmet recite stories. For, among Arabs, Moors, Berbers, and the Negroes of the Sahara, the poet and the story-teller are held in high esteem. And, although none of his American auditors could understand a word of the Arabic, yet he had the gift of portraying by tone and gesture the very spirit of the words. At such times the three, with their sensitive imaginations, had been stirred deeply. As for the Arabs, Akmet never failed to hold them spellbound. “You have a treat in store,” Mr. Hampton whispered to Stone. But tonight Akmet was not the story-teller, but the composer of verses. From a fold of his burnoose he drew out a beautifully worked small lute upon which he struck with an eagle quill. For a moment or two he thrummed idly, without tune, seeking a chord that appealed to him. At the same time he stared all around the group which had drawn closer about him, looking through vacant eyes at each in turn. There was a pause, during which Ali drew close to Mr. Hampton and whispered: “He is a poet—sometimes a great one. You will see and hear.” Suddenly Akmet struck a new chord, one evidently to his liking. He repeated it several times—a chord so deep and sad it sent a thrill of emotion through every man there. Then he began to sing in a pleasing barytone. At first he went slowly, awkwardly, but soon crowding thoughts expressed themselves in words fluently and with grace. When he finished, with a crash, there was not a dry eye. Ali snuffled and leaned closer to Mr. Hampton. “He was great that time,” he whispered. “He sang of his home in the Sous. That is Berber land, far to the west of us. He has not been home in many years, and that was a song of home sickness.” “Great it was,” returned Mr. Hampton, “but,” he added, with a sidelong glance at the solemn faces of his son and Frank, “tell him to give us something more cheerful.”