man, white-bearded and bent, who crouched behind her outstretched arms, his pale face streaming with blood. A broken key in the grille told the story of his foiled attempt to escape. Grimy hands clutched at Malcolm's knees as he drove through the press, a stone whistled past his ear and shrill voices uttered imprecations at the daring foreigner, but he swerved to left and right and made a way until the sight of the dead horse brought his frightened mount to a quivering standstill.
He leapt from the saddle and sprang to the girl's side, and to his amazement his appearance seemed to strike consternation into her heart.
"Why did you come? Get away as quickly as you can," she breathed. "Oh, you were mad to come here!"
"But—but you?" he said.
"They will not hurt me," she said rapidly. "It is the old man they want. Can you smash the lock and get him inside?"
"Give us the book, Jew," yelled a deep voice above the babel of sound. "Give us the book and you shall live! Lady! Magnificence! Make the old man give us the book!"
Malcolm took a flying kick at the gate and the lock yielded. He half lifted, half carried the old man and pushed inside, where another locked door confronted them.
