cheer upon cheer.

Gordon recalled these cheers and the looks of wondering
admiration which had been turned upon Miss Carson, and he grew
so hot at the recollection that he struck the wall beside him
savagely with his clinched fist, and damned the obstinacy of
his young and beautiful friend with a sincerity and vigor that
was the highest expression of his interest in her behalf.

He threw his cigar into the rampart at his feet and dropped
back into the high road. It was deserted at the time, except
for the presence of a tall, slightly built stranger, who
advanced toward him from the city gates. The man was dressed
in garments of European fashion and carried himself like a
soldier, and Gordon put him down at a glance as one of the
volunteers from Paris. The stranger was walking leisurely,
stopping to gaze at the feluccas in the bay, and then turning
to look up at the fortress on the hill. He seemed to have no
purpose in his walk except the interest of a tourist, and as
he drew up even with Gordon he raised his helmet politely and,
greeting him in English, asked if he were on the right road to
the Bashaw's Palace. Gordon pointed to where the white walls
of the palace rose above the other white walls about it.

"That is it," he said. "All the roads lead to it. You keep
going up hill."

"Thank you," said the stranger. "I see I have taken a long
way." He put his white umbrella in the sand, and, removing
his helmet, mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. "It is