his eyes, begged him to say to his master that the
making of pictures of any living or dead thing, especially
mosques, was contrary to their religion, and
that the effendi must fold his tent.

All this time another priest, an old patriarch with
a fez and green turban and Nile-green robe overlaid
with another of rose-pink, was scrutinizing my face.
Then the corn-yellow fellow and the rose-pink patriarch
put their heads together, consulted for a moment,
made me a low bow, performed the flying-fingers act,
and floated off toward the mosque.

"You no go 'way, effendi," explained Joe. "The
priest in green turban say he remember you; he say
you holy man who bow yourselluf humble when dead
man go by. No stop paint."

The protests of the priests, followed by their consultation
and quiet withdrawal, packed the crowd the
closer. One young man in citizen's dress and fez stood
on the edge of the throng trying to understand the
cause of the excitement.

Joe, who was sitting by me assisting with the water-
cup, gazed into the intruder's face a moment, then
closed upon my arm with a grip as if he'd break it.

"Allah! Mahmoud Bey!" he whispered. "Yuleima's
prince. That's him with the smooth face."