He should have been happy, as he made his way down the Beirut streets to go aboard, leaving the land of his adoption for the land of his birth, leaving pleasant Fenzile for the shrewd pleasantry of his own folk.... A little while of Ulster and he would be coming back again.... One's heart should lift the glory of the world, the bold line of Ulster and the lavish color of Syria; the sincere, dour folk of Ulster and the warmth of Fenzile.... He should have left so warmly. "In a little while, dearest, I'll be back and my heart will speak to your twin green eyes." "Yes, Zan. I'll be here." But he had left dourly. And Fenzile had watched him go with quivering lip.... Oh, damn himself for his suspicions, for his annoyance, and damn the fatuous Arab fool for arousing them.... Christ, if only he had that fellow on board ship. And suddenly he met him, with his attendants and hangers-on. The wrestler drew aside with his insolent smile. Campbell's temper broke loose. "Listen, O certain person," he insulted the Aleppo man, "there is a street in Beirut down which it does not please me to see you go." "Will the foreign gentleman tell me," the wrestler's voice drawled, and he smelled his rose, "who will stop a Moslem from going down a Moslem street?" "By God, I would!" The Syrians of Ahmet Ali's escort gathered around, smiling. "The foreign gentleman forgets that I am the wrestler from Aleppo." "Just so. I happen to be a bit of a wrestler myself." "Some day perhaps the foreign gentleman will condescend to try a fall with me." Syrians, Egyptians, Turks, were pouring from all quarters. Six French soldiers, walking gapingly along the bazaars, stopped wonderingly. "Dites, les soldats," Shane called. "Vous ne voulez pas voir quelque chose d'interessant?" "Mais si, Monsieur!" "Eh bien, je vais lutter contre l'homme avec la rose. C'est un lutteur arabe. Voulez-vous-y assister?" "Mais, pour bien sur, Monsieur." "All right, then, by God!" Shane looked square at Ahmet Ali. "We'll wrestle right here and now." "But the stones, the street," Ahmet Ali looked surprised. "You might get hurt." "We'll wrestle here and now." "Oh, all right." The Arab lifted an expressive shoulder. Carefully he removed the great white robe and handed it to an attendant. To another he gave the rose. Shane handed his coat and hat to a saturnine French corporal. Ahmet Ali took his shirt off. Kicked away his sandals. There was the dramatic appearance of an immense bronze torso. The Syrians smiled. The French soldiers looked judicially grave. Ahmet Ali stood talking for an instant with one of his men, a lean bilious-seeming Turk. The Turk was urging something with eagerness. The wrestler's soft girl's face had concentrated into a mask of distaste. He was shaking his head. He didn't like something. "How God-damned long are you going to keep me here?"