LITMIR.BIZ

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was in favour of the raid, and exactly why. The words men spoke were not nearly so impressive as the deeds they did. Therefore, when the illustrious Sheikh Abdul Ali of Damascus urged a raid on the one hand, and boasted of provision for a school in El-Kerak on the other, it would be well to examine this foreign effendi, whom Abdul Ali claimed to have introduced. The claim was disputed, but the claim was not made for nothing. In his judgment, based on vast experience of politics in Arabia, motives were seldom on the surface. All depended on the motives of the illustrious Abdul Ali. This stranger from America—he glared balefully at me—should be investigated thoroughly. As a man of vast experience with the interests of El-Islam at heart, he offered respectfully to examine this stranger thoroughly with the aid of an interpreter. He confessed to certain suspicions; should they prove unfounded, then it might be reasonable to credit the rest of Abdul Ali’s statements; if not, no. He was willing, if the honourable mejlis saw fit, to take the stranger aside and put many questions to him.

      When he had finished you could actually physically feel the suspicion directed at me. It was like a cold wind. Anazeh was just as conscious of it, and muttered something about its being time to go. Abdul Ali got up and asked indignantly why the Ichwan from so far away should have such an important voice; he himself stood there ready to answer all questions. Suliman ben Saoud retorted sourly that he proposed to question the Damascene in public after privately interrogating me.

      “They shall not interfere with you! You are in my charge,” Anazeh growled in my ear. “I will summon my men at the first excuse.”

      “Jimgrim says, ‘Be quiet!’” I answered.

      There was another uproar. Ali Shah al Khassib openly took the part of Abdul Ali. A dozen men demanded to know how much he had been paid to do it. Finally, Suliman ben Saoud beckoned me. I got up, and with Mahommed ben Hamza at my heels I followed him to a narrow door in a side wall that opened on a stone stairway leading to the ramparts. Anazeh came too, growling like a hungry bear, and after a couple of blood-curdling threats hurled at Suliman ben Saoud’s back he took up position in the open door, facing the crowd, and dared any one to try to follow. He seemed to have confidence in Mahommed ben Hamza’s ability to protect me, if necessary, on the roof.

      The roof and ramparts appeared deserted. They were in the ruinous state to which the Turks reduce everything by sheer neglect, and in which Arabs, blaming the Turks, seemed quite disposed to leave things. The Ichwan led the way to the southwest corner, peering about him to make sure no guards were in hiding, or asleep behind projecting buttresses. Overhead the kites were wheeling against a pure blue sky. The Dead Sea lay and smiled below us, with the gorgeous, treeless Judean Hills beyond. Through the broken window of the hall came the cla­mour of arguing men.

      “O, Jimgrim!” grinned Mahommed ben Hamza when we reached the corner.

      Grim turned and faced us with folded arms, leaning his back against the parapet.

      Ben Hamza continued: “You are a very prince of dare-devils! One word from me—one little word, and they would fling you down into the moat for the vultures to feed on!”

      “I remember a time,” Grim answered, “when a word from me saved you from hanging.”

      “True, father of good fortune! But a man must laugh. I will hold my tongue in El-Kerak like a tomb that has not been plundered!”

      “You’d better! You’ve work to do. Where are your men?”

      “All where I can find them.”

      “Good. You’ll get turned out of the mejlis presently. Look down into the moat now.”

      We all peered over. The lower ramp of the wall sloped steeply, but all the way up the sharp southwest corner the stones were broken out, and a goat, or a very active man, could find foothold.

      “Could you climb that?”

      “Surely. Remember, Jimgrim, when I climbed the wall of El-Kudz (Jerusalem) to escape from the police!”

      “Bring your men into the moat between dark and moonrise. Have a long rope with you—a good one. You and two men climb up here and hide. The remainder wait below. Oh, yes; and bring a wheat sack—a new, strong one. You may have to wait for several hours. When you see me, take your cue from me; but whatever happens, no murder! You understand? Nobody’s to be killed.”

      Ben Hamza grinned and nodded. He seemed to be one of those good-natured rogues who ask nothing better than the sheer sport of lawless hero-worship. He would have made a perfect chief of staff for any brigand, provided the brigand took lots of chances.

      “You’ll be killed, if anybody finds you up here after dark! You realize that?”

      “Trust me.”

      Grim nodded. He was good at trusting people, when he had to, and when the selection was his own.

      “Affairs seem to be drifting nicely,” he said, turning to me. “It’s best not to let Anazeh know who I am just yet, if that can be helped. But if you must, when the time comes, you’ll have to tell him. Do keep him sober. After the evening prayer there’ll be a banquet; if he gets drunk we’re done for. I’m going to make you out an awful leper, if you don’t mind. They may yell for your hide and feathers before I’ve finished, but Anazeh will protect you. If he leaves the hall in a huff, don’t make any bones about going with him. Let him ride out of town and wait for me about two miles down the track, at the point where that tomb stands above a narrow pass between two big rocks. Do you remember it?”

      “What if he won’t wait?”

      “He must! Tell him I’ll have a prisoner with me; then he’ll be curious. But you can bet on old Anazeh when he’s sober. But things may turn out so that it’s simpler for you to stay and see this through with me. In that case you must persuade him to go without you, after explaining to him just where he’s to wait.”

      “How shall I do that?” I said. “I haven’t enough Arabic.”

      “I’ll write it,” he answered. “Give me that pencil.”

      “Say something, too, then about his keeping sober.”

      Grim nodded, and wrote quite a long letter in Arabic on a page of my notebook.

      “The next move,” he said, as I pocketed the letter, “is for me to get Abdul Ali’s goat: I think—and I hope—he’ll try to bribe me. If he does, he’s my meat! The whole question of raid or no raid hangs on their confidence in him. If I throw suspicion on him, and he disappears directly afterwards, they’ll abandon the plan, confiscate his goods and chattels, and quarrel among themselves instead of raiding Palestine. Get me?”

      “Um-n-yes. I’ve sat on a horse I was warned against—felt safer—and gone to hospital at that.”

      He laughed.

      “No hospitals up here! It’ll be soon over if they get wise to us. But I think we’re all right; and you’re almost certainly safe. But don’t be tempted to talk. Well—we’ve been up here long enough for me to have put you through the third degree. Better look a bit uncomfortable as you go down, as if I’d got under your skin with some awkward questions. You, too, ben Hamza; don’t grin; look afraid.”

      “I am not at all afraid, Jimgrim. But I will try.”

      Grim studied for a moment.

      “Don’t forget,” he added, “at the first suggestion that you’re not wanted, make yourself scarce, and go and round up your men. If you’re thrown out pretty roughly, keep your temper and run.”

      “Taht il-amr!” (Yours to command.)

      “Come on, then. Let’s go.”

      The sun was fairly low over the Judean Hills as we turned down the narrow stairs and found Anazeh waiting at the bottom.

      CHAPTER NINE

      “Feet downwards, too afraid to yell!”—

      Abdul Ali of Damascus was holding the floor again when we

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