and sobbed instead of talking when we pulled him in between our mules and offered him two stirrup leathers to hold. He seemed to think that standing between the mules would protect him from the artillery fire, and as we were not in any hurry we took advantage of that delusion to let him recover a modicum of nerve.
And the moment that began to happen he was the same sweet Peter Measel with the same assurance of every other body's wickedness and his own divinity, only with something new in his young life to add poignancy.
"What were you doing there?" demanded Fred, as we got him to towing along between us at last.
"I was looking for her."
"For whom?"
"For Maga Jhaere."
Fred allowed his ribs to shake in silent laughter that annoyed the mule, and we had to catch Measel all over again because the beast's crude objections filled the martyred biped full of the desire to run.
"Somebody must save that girl!" he panted. "And who else can do it? Who else is there?"
"There's only you!" Fred agreed, choking down his mirth.
"I'm glad you agree with me. At least you have that much blessedness, Mr. Fred. D'you know that girl was willing to be a murderess? Yes! She tried to murder Rustum Khan. Rustum Khan ought to be hanged, for he is a villain—a black villain! But she must not have blood on her hands—no, no!"
"Why didn't she murder him?" demanded Fred. "Qualms at the last moment?"
"No. I'm sorry to say no. She has no God-likeness yet. But that will come. She will repent. I shall see to
