"Oh, don't be rotten," he told himself. But the occasional hot and searing pain remained, and the little black cloud was in his mind. When they were close in the soft gloom, shoulder to shoulder, her eyes closed, her slim cinnamon hands clenched, pain stabbed him like a knife. And in the gay mornings, when she was arranging her flowers in vases of Persian blue, it made him silent as the grave. And in the evening when she was doing her subtle Syrian broideries, it aroused in him queer gusts of controlled fury.... Could it be possible? A mountebank.... And the "Thousand and One Nights" began with _Shah Zamon's_ queen and her love for the blackamoor slave.... If the wrestler would only go away, become tired of parading, and Fenzile would tire of smiling.... And later on Campbell would laugh.... But the wrestler stayed, and many times Campbell met him in the streets, and each time was exaggerated, insulting courtesy from the Aleppo man, as he drew aside to let the Frank pass. There was hostility and contempt in his veiled eyes.... There nonchalance in his smelling of the rose ... Campbell passed by frigidly, as if the man weren't there, and all the time his blood was boiling.... But what was one to do? One could not make a scene before the riff-raff of Syria. And besides, there was too much of a chance of a knife in the back.... Franks were cheap these days, and it would be blamed on the war of the Druses.... Argue with himself as much as he could, it was intolerable. It was silly, but it was intolerable.... To think of another caressing that perfumed hair, of another kissing the palm of that slim hand, of another seeing those sleek, sweet shoulders.... Was he jealous ...? No, irritated, just, he told himself. Was he in love with her himself? Of course not. She wasn't close enough to him for that.... Then why ...? Oh, damn it! He didn't know why, but it was just intolerable.... Section 11 The bark was in the open roadstead, cargo all ready, Levantine pilot on board. A reaching breeze from the north and all favorable. And when he would get home to Liverpool, he had a design to spend a few weeks in Ulster.... The roads would be glistening with frost there, and the pleasant Ulster moon at the full.... The turf would be nearly black, and bare as a board, and there would be coursing of hares ... November mists, and the trees red and brown.... Eh, hard Ulster, pleasant Ulster!