ISKANDER EFFENDI. 57 



" The young American was ready to sell his life dearly. 

 He had fired his revolver twice with fatal precision, but, 

 as the enemy approached him, he had drawn his short 

 yataghan, and, with the strength and skill of an accom- 

 plished swordsman, was keeping off the heads of a dozen 

 lances that were seeking his breast. How easily at that 

 instant I might have been left alone to protect Edith the 

 beautiful ! But I did not pause. We descended on the 

 Arab horde like a thunderbolt. Seven saddles were 

 empty before we closed with them, and then the contest 

 was brief and decisive. Five of the Oulad Ibrahim fled 

 across the hill, and a ball from my revolver lamed for- 

 ever the horse on which the last one rode. 



" But the Druse chieftain was not where I had found 

 him. He lay on the ground, bleeding from a ghastly 

 wound. As I sprang to his side he murmured, the words 

 gurgling in blood, 'Lift me, Iskander — gently. It's all 

 up with me.' 



" I lifted him with one arm around his shoulders. His 

 head fell on my breast, but he revived a little at the 

 change in his position. We made a litter of branches, 

 and carried him gently to Birreh. I had sent a messen- 

 ger for Edith, and she arrived at the huts by the well just 

 as we brought him there. We carried him into the cov- 

 ered house, the pilgrim's resting-place by the well, and 

 made him as comfortable as we could; but life was fast 

 ebbing away, and when the evening approached he was 

 dying. 



" Edith sat by him, Edith the beautiful — how beauti- 

 ful ! There was no wild emotion of grief in the dear 

 girl. She sat down by his side as the wife of a chieftain 

 of Mount Lebanon should, and tenderly cared for him 

 with tearless eyes. 



