The Eye of Zeitoon. Talbot Mundy

would rather see Europe burn from end to end!" Monty agreed.

      "And I think there's more than that in it," said the consul. "Armenians are not their favorites. The Germans want the trade of the Levant. The Armenians are business men. They're shrewder than Jews and more dependable than Greeks. It would suit Germany very nicely, I imagine, to have no Armenians to compete with."

      "But if Germany once got control of the Near East," I objected, "she could impose her own restrictions."

      The consul frowned. "Armenians who thrive in spite of Turks—"

      "Would skin a German for hide and tallow," nodded Will.

      "Exactly. Germany would object vigorously if we or the States should land marines to prevent the Turks from applying the favorite remedy, vukuart—that means events, you know—their euphemism for massacre at rather frequent intervals. Germany would rather see the Turks finish the dirty work thoroughly than have it to do herself later on."

      "You mean," said I, "that the German government is inciting to massacre?"

      "Hardly. There are German missionaries in the country, doing good work in a funny, fussy, rigorous fashion of their own. They'd raise a dickens of a hocus-pocus back in Germany if they once suspected their government of playing that game. No. But Germany intends to stand off the other powers, while Turks tackle the Armenians; and the Turks know that."

      "But what's the immediate excuse for massacre?" demanded Fred.

      The consul laughed.

      "All that's needed is a spark. The Armenians haven't been tactful. They don't hesitate to irritate the Turks—not that you can blame them, but it isn't wise. Most of the money-lenders are Armenians; Turks won't engage in that business themselves on religious grounds, but they're ready borrowers, and the Armenian money-lenders, who are in a very small minority, of course, are grasping and give a bad name to the whole nation. Then, Armenians have been boasting openly that one of these days the old Armenian kingdom will be reestablished. The Turks are conquerors, you know, and don't like that kind of talk. If the Armenians could only keep from quarreling among themselves they could win their independence in half a jiffy, but the Turks are deadly wise at the old trick of divide et impera; they keep the Armenians quarreling, and nobody dares stand in with them because sooner—or later—sooner, probably—they'll split among themselves, and leave their friends high and dry. You can't blame 'em. The Turks know enough to play on their religious prejudices and set one sect against another. When the massacres begin scarcely an Armenian will know who is friend and who enemy."

      "D'you mean to say," demanded Fred, "that they're going to be shot like bottles off a wall without rhyme or reason?"

      "That's how it was before," said the consul. "There's nothing to stop it. The world is mistaken about Armenians. They're a hot-blooded lot on the whole, with a deep sense of national pride, and a hatred of Turkish oppression that rankles. One of these mornings a Turk will choose his Armenian and carefully insult the man's wife or daughter. Perhaps he will crown it by throwing dirt in the fellow's face. The Armenian will kill him or try to, and there you are. Moslem blood shed by a dog of a giaour—the old excuse!"

      "Don't the Armenians know what's in store for them?" I asked.

      "Some of them know. Some guess. Some are like the villagers on

       Mount Vesuvius—much as we English were in '57 in India, I

       imagine—asleep—playing games—getting rich on top of a volcano.

       The difference is that the Armenians will have no chance."

      "Did you ever hear tell of the Eye of Zeitoon?" asked Will, apropos apparently of nothing.

      "No," said the consul, staring at him.

      Will told him of the individual we had talked with in the khan the night before, describing him rather carefully, not forgetting the gipsies in the black tent, and particularly not the daughter of the dawn who schooled a gray stallion in the courtyard.

      The consul shook his head.

      "Never saw or heard of any of them."

      We were sitting in full view of the roadstead where Anthony and Cleopatra's ships had moored a hundred times. The consul's garden sloped in front of us, and most of the flowers that Europe reckons rare were getting ready to bloom.

      "Would you know the man if you saw him again, Will?" I asked.

      "Sure I would!"

      "Then look!"

      I pointed, and seeing himself observed a man stepped out of the shadow of some oleanders. There was something suggestive in his choice of lurking place, for every part of the oleander plant is dangerously poisonous; it was as if he had hidden himself among the hairs of death.

      "Him, sure enough!" said Will.

      The man came forward uninvited.

      "How did you get into the grounds?" the consul demanded, and the man laughed, laying an unafraid hand on the veranda rail.

      "My teskere is a better than the Turks give!" he answered in English.

       (A teskere is the official permit to travel into the interior.)

      "What do you mean?"

      "How did sunshine come into the garden? By whose leave came the wind?"

      He stood on no formality. Before one of us could interfere (for he might have been plying the assassin's trade) he had vaulted the veranda rail and stood in front of us. As he jumped I heard the rattle of loose cartridges, and the thump of a hidden pistol against the woodwork. I could see the hilt of a dagger, too, just emerging from concealment through the opening in his smock. But he stood in front of us almost meekly, waiting to be spoken to.

      "You are without shame!" said the consul.

      "Truly! Of what should I be ashamed!"

      "What brought you here?"

      "Two feet and a great good will! You know me."

      The consul shook his head.

      "Who sold the horse to the German from Bitlis?"

      "Are you that man?"

      "Who clipped the wings of a kite, and sold it for ten pounds to a fool for an eagle from Ararat?"

      The consul laughed.

      "Are you the rascal who did that?"

      "Who threw Olim Pasha into the river, and pushed him in and in again for more than an hour with a fishing pole—and then threw in the gendarmes who ran to arrest him—and only ran when the Eenglis consul came?"

      "I remember," said the consul.

      "Yet you don't look quite like that man."

      "I told you you knew me."

      "Neither does to-day's wind blow like yesterday's!"

      "What is your name?"

      "Then it was Ali."

      "What is it now?"

      "The name God gave me?"

      "Yes."

      "God knows!"

      "What do you want here?"

      He spread out his arms toward us four, and grinned.

      "Look—see! Four Eenglis sportman! Could a man want more?"

      "Your face is hauntingly familiar," said the consul, searching old memories.

      "No doubt. Who carried your honor's letter to Adrianople in time of war, and received a bullet, but brought the answer back?"

      "What—are you that man—Kagig?"

      Instead of replying the man opened his smock, and pulled aside an undershirt until his hairy left breast lay bare down to