THE PREFECT OF JERUSALEM

     THERE WAS a dark cloud coming eastward over the watershed, blackening out the dusty olive orchards on the terraced hills and whitening by contrast the and limestone cliffs. For the first time in two months, it was going to rain. There would for a while be an end to sandstorms, to wearing a veil across the face, to sparing water. Mena sighed. Of all the delights of Egypt, the one he missed most through the years was abundant water. In Jerusalem, when the stinking cisterns had been drained of their last drop, the whole town was forced to rely on a single spring, whose supply must be rationed carefully. Hence, no doubt, the all-pervading dirt. In the brief, hot lull before the storm, the fetid smells were almost intolerable, even after twenty years and with the knowledge that a cooling wind would in a few moments blow the worst of them away.
      For the thousandth time, Mena took a moment to regret the days when there had still been glamor in the military life. He had been the only son of quite ambitious parents who had intended him from his earliest years to be a scribe. If he had been less bold and active, or the schoolmaster less ferocious, he might have become so. Actually, he grew tired of savage beatings and ran away as he was entering his fifteenth year. Those were the glorious days when Pharaoh still rode before his regiments himself. Mena had liked the foraging parties, the cooking and sleeping in the open, the chance of getting wonderfully drunk in a good wine country, the marvel of seeing the sea, and the sense of belonging to a superior race amid jabbering Syrians. He had even enjoyed the excitement of battle, the inevitable victory, and the thrill of receiving his first gold ring for valor or of being made captain of his first company.
      Those had been golden days. Mena's skill in writing had been discovered by his superiors, and it brought him rapid promotion. His daring had become notorious. It had been Mena who led the famous contingent that Tutiyi had smuggled into rebellious Joppa, concealed in enormous water jars. His reward had been an independent command with a chance, he was told, for fame and easy riches. Tutiyi had procured him the prefecture of this little hill town, Jerusalem.
      Mena had often wondered whether Tutiyi could have been jealous and anxious to keep all the glory of the taking of Joppa to himself. Jerusalem, after all, was not even on the main route through Syria. All the traffic went up the coast from Gaza and passed her by. Not for Jerusalem were the Egyptian traders, the important ambassadors, or the detachments of troups going up to settle feuds among the cities of the north. All that ever came from Egypt was a yearly escort to fetch the tribute King Abishua exacted from his subjects and paid over, with suitable deductions, into Mena's treasury. With it Mena or Abishua himself would be privileged to send letters to Pharaoh, chiefly consisting of expressions of loyalty incised in blunt characters on tablets of baked clay. At the end would come a request, long meditated, but compressed into a sentence or two that concealed aching months of alternate hope and despair. "Send me back my grandson, Abdi-khita," wrote Abishua. "I grow old, and is he not my heir?" "Does Abdi-khita still live?" There was never any answer.
      When Mena wrote, he had sometimes better fortune. Lately he had been desperate for reinforcements to control the shepherd tribes who were migrating from beyond Jordan. The preceding caravan had brought him help. Out of his infinite magnificence, Pharaoh had spared Jerusalem five men.
      If he could have wept on this occasion, Mena would have done so; but all his tears were dried up by twenty years of longing for home. Instead, he made the usual feast for the captain of the party, pressed the usual bribe into his hand, and tried as always to detain him for the sheer pleasure of talking with an Egyptian again. "At least let Abishua send you out an escort," said he. "The road is scarcely safe, and you are leaving half your soldiers behind. We have been training the people here, and truly their archers are not bad."
      The captain, who was anxious to get back to more civilized quarters in Gaza, accepted this offer, foreseeing that the Syrians would be useful as donkey drivers to get his pack animals over the hills. Of Syrian soldiery, he had no opinion at all. To him indeed, these lonely hill-town prefects were all the same. All of them were pathetically anxious to talk Egyptian gossip and would brag about their own achievements as though they were generals, not broken-down old soldiers, gone half native in the course of years. This fellow in Jerusalem, for instance, was wrapped in a greasy woolen Syrian robe.
      The wind was rising now. In a few moments it would rain. Mena went over to his chest and took out the offending Syrian garment. He was a fastidious man, but a heavy robe was a necessity for much of the time in this climate. When the cisterns were full, there might be a chance to get it washed.

      Abishua appeared on the threshold just as the rain started. Mena made him a courteous inclination. Part of his work was to uphold the dignity of Abishua as king, in spite of the tremulous indecision that had grown upon the old man since his repeated requests for Abdikhita had been made in vain. Abishua had not himself been brought up in Egypt, but for a year or two he had been a hostage in Memphis and golden On. Since then, he had been consecrated king with Egyptian holy oil, would sacrifice occasionally with Mena in Amon's little temple, and paid over the tribute with only a reasonable amount of grumbling. In fact, he had been a model king, not too ambitious to be ashamed of owing his throne to Mena's dozen soldiers and to a widespread fear of Egypt's sleeping power. Latterly he had begun to doubt whether the name of Abishua counted for much in Egypt, and to wonder whether Bela, his nephew, would not suit Pharaoh just as well, especially if Abdi-khita should happen to be dead.
      "My lord the king does his poor gatehouse honor,".said Mena bowing low, not out of respect, but for the benefit of watchers. Jerusalem, perched behind rough stone walls on a narrow ridge, was intensely crowded, so that even the king found it hard to command an instant's privacy.
      With a fierce crash the storm broke, drowning Abishua's reply in pouring rain. In the half-light, Mena could see that he gestured, shook his hands above his head as though in frenzy, and then smote wildly on the ground before him with his staff. Mena was used to such scenes, which were growing all too frequent as the old man sought to lay the blame for his feebleness elsewhere. Despising such effusions, he yet forced himself to step within earshot and was rewarded by having something square and heavy thrust into his hands. "Look at it," screamed the old man. "Read it. Abdi-khita is surely dead, and no one any longer cares about our fate!" He put up his hand to his beard and tore at it ineffectually as though, had he the power, he would have dragged pieces of it out by the roots.
      Recognizing by feel the little baked clay tablets, Mena spared a moment to wonder incredulously if a messenger had found some secret way over the wall. As captain of the gate, he knew perfectly well that no stranger had entered Jerusalem for several days. He had himself sent out a party to scour the hills in case the road had been blocked to travelers by some robber foray. These thoughts passed through his mind as he took the tablets to the window and began to study the stubby little characters that had been punched on them while the clay was wet. He could not himself read well in this language, yet surely there was something familiar in these opening lines. "My father, lord of the lands," they said, "my god, the breath of my life.. . I prostrate myself seven times before my king, I, Mena, the dust beneath his feet."
      There was much more, but Mena did not read it. Well he knew the flowery list of compliments, and at the end the desperate sentence beginning, "The lands of my lord and Pharaoh are perishing." Night after night he had brooded over this message, altering a word here or there, imagining its reception, saying to himself, "Surely someone about Pharaoh will remember Mena and know that he does not give way to imaginary fears."
      Mena looked at his letter to Pharaoh which he himself had entrusted to the scrawny captain, adding a handsome bribe out of his own gold. He said nothing. He only swayed a little with the dizziness of extreme rage as he thought of his hands about the neck of that captain. After a moment, he mastered himself and said to Abishua a little hoarsely, "How comes my letter here?"
      "Thrown out on the roadway! screamed Abishua. "Tossed away by that dog of a captain like so much dirt. Pharaoh has given us up, or he would not have dared."
      "Never believe it!" declared Mena, forcing his voice to sound quite confident. "Has not the good god sent us men?"
      "'Five men!" said Abishua scornfully, "and you were but eleven. I must let Bela open our wells to the shepherd people and take their chieftain's daughter into his harem. Without a troop of soldiers, I can hold out no more."
      It was indeed true that trade was dying because the roads were no longer safe for unescorted travelers. The olive orchards on the hills around could now only be cultivated if Abishua posted scouts. Though open war was not yet waged, men disappeared and outlying farms were mysteriously harried. A party in Jerusalem even desired to abandon the hills to the wild shepherd folk and to make the best of the situation by a treaty. Leader of these was the king's nephew, Bela, who had been heard to say that as long as the Egyptian tribute pressed heavy on the people, they had not the resources to combat the shepherd chiefs. It was known that Bela had asked for a shepherd chieftain's daughter, and that messengers had been back and forth, settling terms. It was even natural to suppose that the lives of Abishua and the Egyptian garrison had been discussed.
      All this was fresh enough in Mena's mind as he argued with Abishua, trying to infuse into the old man a little of the royal dignity which alone stood between them all and death.
      "Let me at least send on this letter to Gaza," he pleaded, "before anyone knows that the captain failed to carry it."
      "They all know!" cried Abishua, wringing his hands. "It was Bela's man who found the tablet, and the whole city is buzzing with the news that Egypt has forsaken us."
      There would be revolution over this, thought Mena. The end was indeed at hand. Bela's publication of such a story was in itself a proof that he meant to take advantage of Egypt's negligence. This very night, his assassins might dispatch Abishua. Tomorrow or the next day, the gatehouse could be stormed and an alliance patched up with the robbers in the hills. Unfortunate that Mena's own patrol had not picked up this letter, but these things happened. Meantime, at least it rained.
      “Thothmes! " Mena stepped quickly between Abishua and the doorway, raising his voice to summon his young lieutenant from the outer room. "How full are the cisterns now?"
      "Not very full, my captain, but there is drinking water for ten days."
      "It is good. Take King Abishua and shut him up in the tower. Put one of the men on guard there, and come back to me.”
      In an hour the sun would set, and after that it would be some time before the palace servants missed their king.  They would suppose Abishua was lingering after a scene with the captain, which he often did in order to bolster his failing courage with wine. There should still be a few hours of the old king's reign in which a cautious man might make some moves.  
      Young Thothmes came back and stood before him. Mena regarded him thoughtfully. He had been brought up in the garrison, was in fact the son of a soldier by one of the native women, though by chance he happened to look like a purebred Egyptian. This had recommended him to Mena, who had in a casual way adopted him, needing perhaps some reminder of himself when he was young. He thought of himself now, crammed into a jar and bumped and jolted on a donkey's back into Joppa. It had been his glorious hour, and he could only envy Thothmes, whose adventures lay ahead.
      "I am sending you to Gaza over the hills," he began abruptly. "It will take two nights if you travel in secret and keep off the trodden paths. Carry water, and avoid the wells where you may be discovered. Hide during the day. We must have help from the prefect of Gaza, whether he is willing or no."
      Thothmes nodded as though he too had come to this conclusion. "If I leave by the gate, I shall be seen and followed. I will go out through the watercourse," said he.
      Mena carefully thought this over. It would be a secret way out of the city, but by no means an easy one. There was but one spring in all Jerusalem which never failed, and this naturally lay in the valley, in a cave below the walls. To it a sloping tunnel and a deep shaft had been cut right through the hillside, in order that the people might still draw water if the town were besieged. To climb down that forty-foot shaft was not impossible, yet dangerous in the dark, with rocks below and with the rope that drew the water rotting, as it always was, from age and use. "You will be dashed to pieces in the shaft," said he.
      Thothmes shrugged his shoulders. "I must take my chance," he answered. "Certainly there will be watchers on the walls, and if I am seen going out by the gate, we shall be all undone."
      This seemed so likely that Mena made no more objections, though if he could have spared another messenger, he would have sent a second man out over the wall. Since this was impossible with a garrison of ten, he dismissed the matter from his thoughts and began to consider what was now best to be done.

      The gatehouse at Jerusalem consisted of two square towers, each originally a rough stone structure with a flat roof and parapet above. To this Mena had added a second story built of wood and excellently loopholed, again finished off with a flat roof and battlements. Each tower was itself a strong point, but together they were not particularly well adapted for a siege. They had been designed, of course, to protect the gate and not to house the garrison, which lived in outbuildings along the inside of the wall. Mena's tower contained the armory; the other, the bulk of the stores. Both had small supplies of water, neither adequate. It had become urgently necessary to consolidate these things.
      What decided Mena in favor of his own tower was the superior strength of his door, which was of heavy wood and closed upon a pivot set into the stone. This should resist some battering, especially if it were reinforced from inside. Fortunately, the roof was well supplied with ammunition in the form of great piles of heavy stones. More would be obtainable from the other tower if there was time after bringing over stores.
      It was a dim night luckily. The moon was covered, and the steaming of the hot earth had produced a little mist. To this and to Abishua's disappearance, Mena attributed the delay that allowed them to continue their work for several hours. When at last the sentry on the roof reported cautious movement in one of the alleys across the little square, Mena gave instant word to the men detailed for that duty to desert the second tower after setting it on fire. If he could not hold it himself, he could at least deny it to Bela, and by doing so he could maintain his own possession of the gate.

      There was a tense silence after this for about half an hour, since the fire gained ground slowly, and in the darkness the watchers from the alley did not at first perceive the smoke. Indeed, Mena supposed that the first movements had been those of a party detailed to slit the throats of himself and his men while they were asleep. Discovering that their victims were astir, they had most likely gone back to Bela for instructions, thus missing their chance to seize the abandoned tower before too late. At all events, it was not until red began to glow through the loopholes that a yell rent the darkness as somebody perceived what had been done. This was answered by other shouts farther back in the town, and followed by screams and barking. In the midst of the noise, a confused rush was made by about a dozen men to save the tower. Mena's bowmen let fly from the roof and even in the darkness claimed three victims, one of whom let out such a fearful shriek that his companions stopped in their tracks. Most of them now retreated hastily to the shelter of the lanes across the square. Three or four reached the tower and, finding the door closed, ducked behind the building, out of sight. Even if they dared come round to the entrance, however, it was now apparent that the fire could not be put out by bare hands. Great columns of smoke were rising and a flame burst out of one of the loopholes, illuminating the scene with a reddish glare.
      The whole town was evidently waking in confusion.  Having gone peacefully to sleep as Abishua's subjects, the people were aroused in the darkness to find fire, uproar, corpses, the rule of Bela, and the overthrow of Egypt's power. Long debated as the thing had been, its coming was so violent that men who might have stood aside now seized their weapons, dreading massacre. The clash of arms, the screams of frightened women, and the shouts of cornered men rose wildly through the town.
      It was this tumult that saved Mena's garrison. The night was still, and they had not waited for the dawn breeze before they fired the tower. Now as the flames licked across the gateway, Mena was forced to put all his men on the battlements with sticks, hides, and as a last resort the precious water, praying silently for the coming of a wind. Blinded and choking, they leaned out into the smoke with soaked hides, beating frantically at the hot, charred surface of their own battlements. Once the wood burst into flame, water enough to keep a man alive for fourteen days was poured on it. When at last they could rest, put oil on their blistered arms, and watch the dawn wind blowing away the smoke from the blackened ruin, a hasty calculation showed that most of the water in the fort had been consumed.
      "It may rain," said Mena nonchalantly, "and in any case, there will be help from Gaza." He spared a thought for Thothmes, wondering if the young man's broken body lay uselessly in the darkness at the foot of the water shaft. Such  guesswork being quite unprofitable, he preferred to consider the position caused by his mastery of the Jerusalem
gate.  
      There was another, lesser gate to the city which would of course be open to the people, and in any case the entire wall could not have been controlled by so few. On the other hand, the town could not be closed to Egypt as long as Mena remained the master of this entryway. Bela's people would not find it easy to assault him, now that the tower which would have commanded his own had been destroyed. They might prefer a blockade, guessing at the shortage of water and being assured that the city was cut off from inquisitive travelers by the shepherd men. One assault at least was probable, but Bela would very likely delay it until dark. By that time the tumult in the town would certainly be over, ladders could have been collected, and a battering ram brought up to smash the door. Mena decided to take his men off the roof, as heat would make them thirsty, and it was wise for them to sleep whenever they could.
      It was hard to rest that day because of the noise. The square by the gateway, like all open spaces in Jerusalem, was tiny, and many of the garrison had women and children in the town. Fortunately most of these men were out on patrol, presumably lost, while the five new soldiers were unmoved by the frantic pleas of people whom they could not help. However, these were not to be prevented from screaming at the garrison, or more truculent citizens from adding insults and threats. After the first hour, Mena forbade his soldiers to dry up their throats by shouting answers.
      In this emergency, it was an unexpected help to find that Abishua, so vacillating when danger threatened, could show resolution when absolutely cornered. Bela's open rebellion had made him no longer a hostage, but a rightful king fighting for his life. As such his position gave him authority, and Mena could hand over affairs to him while he attempted to snatch some sleep.

      The assault came about midnight. The stars were out, but the bowmen had only time to release a single volley before the men with the ladders were across the tiny square. The battering ram, being heavy, came more slowly. The three archers Mena had ordered to deal with it had shot five men before the rest dropped it in the doorway and raced off, allowing the garrison to turn their whole attention to the ladders.
      The men with these were more determined and far more numerous. Undoubtedly it was their hope to plant so many that Mena's little company could not dislodge them all. Once the weight of two or three men was on a ladder, a single man on the parapet could not easily knock it down. This reasoning was sound enough, but the tower was high, great stones lay ready, and half the fort was not assailable, since it lay outside the city wall. More than a dozen ladders were placed and dislodged. Others were planted, but the confusion of falling stones and writhing bodies made this difficult. One man alone reached the parapet, and him Mena slew with a spear thrust which went right through his body and bore him back with fearful force on the man behind him. He too toppled and, grasping at the ladder, brought the whole structure crashing to the ground. With wild shrieks the assailants broke and ran for cover, whence they contented themselves with shooting off their arrows at the roof. This being well protected, it could be but chance if any found a mark. Nevertheless, Mena withdrew his men into the tower and forbade his archers to use up precious ammunition in return.
      It was pure bad luck that by some minor miracle an arrow should find its way in through a loophole and transfix Mena through the lower part of his left arm. To be sure, they stanched the blood after a time, while he told his soldiers that he was lucky to be no archer and that a spear needed nothing but a good right arm. Still, it was painful, and he was conscious that wounds would not heal as quickly now as they had done when he was young. He lay back on a cloak they had spread for him and tried to summon his resources. There was a short spell of silence, broken only by the groans of the men beneath the tower. With a savage look, the Nubian among his soldiers made a movement to get up and deal with them.
      "Let them crawl off if they can," Mena ordered. "It is better than piling up dead men before our door." This was so indisputably true that no one protested, and presently the sounds in the square died painfully away.
      Thus passed the second night, the one on which Thothmes might reach Gaza if he had survived the climb down the watercourse and the perils of the way. All depended on the prefect there, his troops, his readiness to push into wilderness country on the strength of a strange young man's report. There was no point in wondering about it except that his wound kept Mena wakeful. Either help would come, or it would not.
      On the next day there was much hammering in the city, from which, and from the abusive threats of the people, it was evident that a different kind of attack would be prepared. The proper way to assault a tower was from high wheeled structures, consisting of a thick framework of timber covered with layers of hide. However, because Jerusalem streets were narrow, it was difficult to conceive of bringing a large enough engine through the town. Outside, the ground fell away too steeply for an attempt of this kind to be practicable. Mena was slightly puzzled, but as a precaution he had the men hoist their heaviest stones up on the parapet. Abishua directed this effort while he himself lay quietly, husbanding his strength, for his wound pained him. Thus passed a long, hot day.
      The second assault came also by night, though as there was moonlight, the attackers had very little to gain from the protection of the dark. Unable to make his structures large enough to reach the parapet, Bela had determined to assail the wooden story of the tower. Accordingly, two smallish buildings came rumbling into the square, each one containing about ten men armed with axes and pushed from behind by twice as many more. The night was not too dark to see them clearly, but being powerless to stop their advance, Mena ordered his archers to let them alone. "Aim at those with ladders who will run in behind them," he advised. "When these towers are once in place, you may smash them down with stones. Meanwhile the Nubian and I will fight with the axmen through the loopholes, and when they are destroyed will come up here to your help."
      Once more the hills resounded with the fierce yells of the laddermen who, advancing from behind their wheeled towers, flung themselves desperately upon the wall. Being, however, crowded by these two clumsy erections, they were unable for the most part to find room and jostled each other, or fell back into shelter to await their turn. Meanwhile, the huge stones crashing down from the parapet broke through one roof of hides and fell, amid hideous screams, on the group beneath. The other tower held firm, but rocked as though it would fall over, preventing the, axmen within it from commencing their work. Quick as a flash, the Nubian stabbed with his spear through a loophole, claiming one victim before the fight could here be said to have begun, but in another instant his spear had been snapped off short, and axes were thudding heavily against the wooden wall.
      Now Mena saw that he had disposed his forces badly, as the structure which was in action was exposed to only one loophole. Moreover, the men in it had a rough shield that they had raised on this quarter, thus keeping him and the Nubian idle when they might have been active on the roof. The wall, though stout, was splintering. If the axmen smashed it, the garrison might not have the power to defend the hole. Preoccupied now with the men upon the ladders, Abishua and the soldiers could no longer have time to deal with the wooden towers below.
      There was no moment to be lost. Throwing aside his spear, Mena darted for the steps and with the Nubian at his heels burst out upon the roof. Without so much as a glance at the struggle by the parapet, he made for the brazier that he had caused to be lighted and set well back in the farthest corner in readiness for just such a desperate emergency. On it stood a small but furiously boiling pot of oil. Snatching at his robe as he ran and using it to muffle his hands, he seized the jar and, regarding neither the pain of his wound nor the charring of the stuff beneath his fingers, he ran clear across the rooftop and hurled it, pot and all, at the roof of hides below.

      A few hides, already battered heavily by stones, could provide but little shelter from even a small amount of boiling oil. With screams of pain or terror, the axmen deserted their post and ran for their lives, only anxious to escape before the garrison threw more. Meanwhile the powerful Nubian, flinging himself with a roar into the struggle by the ladders, brought sufficient help to turn the scale. Within five minutes the assault was completely abandoned, all that remained being some groaning forms in the square and the battered machines, on which the garrison were already throwing fire.
      During this last repulse, Mena had lain huddled by the wall in sick half-consciousness, fighting with the pain of his scorched hands and wounded arm. As the Nubian came to him with water, he roused himself to order the men to bring out one of their two skins of wine. Abishua, he saw, was also lying in a huddle, as were two of the archers and a man he did not know. Evidently he was an enemy who had succeeded in surmounting the wall.
      "Throw that man over the parapet," he ordered brutally, reflecting that he had no choice, since there was not a drop of water to spare.
      Two swarthy Amorites among his soldiers laid hold of the victim who struggled madly, shrieking to them to spare his life. "Ask my father for ransom," screamed he. The men took no notice, but Mena glanced at him sharply and told the Amorites to stand aside.
      This man was well known to all of them and might be far more valuable alive than dead. He was one of Bela's sons, a lad named Saul. To be sure, Bela had more than twenty children, as was to be expected of a man with seven wives. There was, however, a chance that Saul might be a favorite and that negotiations might be spun out for some time. Mena's arm was throbbing with fever; his burned hands were almost helpless. One man lay dead, two more were wounded, and old Abishua seemed exhausted. It was clear that another attack would overwhelm them, and yet the people from Gaza might arrive if they held out till daylight came. "We will keep you," decided Mena, "but your father must send you water, for we have none to spare.” Surely such an admission would convince Bela that the tower would fall into his hands after a very short blockade.

      The next day passed in idling, sparing water, and vainly watching the road up which the help from Gaza must come. The weather was intensely hot and dry, and in this season might easily remain so over a week. There was a little wine, and a few spoonfuls of water were doled out at regular intervals to every man. The hours went very slowly as the garrison looked in vain for the rescuers, who should by now have come. Today the men were thirsty, but tomorrow they would be frantic. Meanwhile the prisoner, though in one sense a protection, represented temptation of a more subtle kind. Old Abishua spoke of this to Mena as the two, were sitting together watching the road in the light of the setting sun.
      The old man was in fact but slightly wounded, yet his face was ash-pale from exhaustion and sunken as though he were very near to death. He had sat in his chair during the day and had spoken cheerfully, but it was clear to all who looked on him that he would not fight again. He now glanced anxiously about and bent his head toward Mena, lowering his voice to a murmur the soldiers could not catch.
      "There is no more water," said he, "and without it, the men will not endure another day."
      "Gaza may yet send help," said Mena. "If not, it may rain."
      "It will not rain tonight. Tomorrow the men will make some terms with Bela, who will spare their lives to save his son.”
      "They cannot suppose that Bela will keep such promises."
      "Perhaps not," muttered the old man, "but any chance seems better than a death of thirst on this accursed tower. You and I must be killed, but these men are not pure Egyptians and might be spared to act as officers in Bela's guard. I think they sent out some message when Bela gave his son a little water, and that they will betray us in the morning if rescue has not come."
      Once more a vision of the broken rope dangling in the water shaft rose before Mena's eyes, though he was far too old a soldier to be shaken by such thoughts. "Old friend," said he to Abishua, "you fight bravely to the end."
      Abishua smiled with pleasure at the compliment. "It is easier to fight than to rule," he remarked.
      Mena looked over his shoulder at his men sitting glumly together, and at the three wounded stretched on pallets along the wall. "There is still a little wine." said he aloud, "and as the sun goes down, we will finish it. Then those who still can fight may sleep, while I will watch for all."
      No one wasted breath in answer or protested that a whole night's watch was too much for a wounded man. The wine that might have lasted till noon, had they been sparing, was now brought out and eagerly consumed. Even this, Mena noticed, did not make the group less sullen, though it did dispose them more rapidly to sleep. They made their way to the roof, where they might be ready for action, while the wounded men and the prisoner remained inside.
      Mena also went up to the roof, concealing the effort that it had now become for him to mount that stair. His wound throbbed and was hot. His head was dizzy with loss of blood and flushed from wine. Without speech, the men lay down in their corners, while Mena half leaned, half sat in an embrasure, watching the moon rise over Jerusalem for what he felt sure would be the last night of his life. He found it hard to die obscure, exiled, forgotten, thrown away by his country like a sword that has served its turn. Worse yet was the thought that he would remain unburied, though religion taught that the soul must perish if the dead body were not preserved. However, why should his spirit care to haunt these blistering valleys and to sigh throughout eternity for Egyptian streams? He would be content if his life had but been happy. He envied Thothmes, who must have died on his great adventure, instead of surviving to eat his heart out through inglorious years.
      The soldiers were quiet now. Mena drew his dagger and tested how well his bandaged hand would grip. Midnight murder was a strange last duty, yet, if Saul died, the men could have no hope of making terms. How they could hold out long, he did not understand. Still, help might by a miracle appear, or it might rain. Mena set a very cautious foot upon the stair.
      There was a lamp alight in the tower, so that torches might be kindled quickly if sudden need arose. Mena could dimly see that the wounded men were quiet, the prisoner at the end lying still as any stone. Twelve slow steps would take him down the staircase, and three quick ones across the floor. One hand must fall across the prisoner's mouth and the other with the dagger cut his throat. The man lay face up, and he must strike at the throat. Mena fumbled with his left arm in his robe and hoped it would obey him. There must be no sound.
      He stood at the bottom of the steps now, with but three paces before him. One of the wounded stirred and muttered, but the prisoner made no noise. Mena took his left arm out of the robe and held it ready, wincing a little as it moved. His burned right hand closed slowly on the dagger, while he swayed dizzily with pain. Three quick steps across the floor, and he threw himself upon the man.
      Young Saul was dead already. Mena saw it as his arm descended, and he checked himself, rolling forward on the corpse. The eyes were open, but quite unseeing, though they glittered at the lamp. Mena put his dagger away and reached for the light, that he might examine him. When they had first laid hands on the prisoner, he had seemed lively. No one had spared time since to look at his wound. He was a young man and vigorous, but he had died uncomplaining. He had made a good end.
      Mena was turning away when he hesitated a moment. On an arm half concealed by Saul's robe, he had caught sight of a golden gleam. Riches could do nothing for Mena any more, but long habit bade him turn aside the garment and take a glance. He stiffened in amazement. The bracelet Saul was wearing was his own. That very ornament which he had received for valor and had bestowed on the scrawny captain in his great need came back to him on the arm of Bela's son. It was conceivable that the captain should cast Mena's letter into the ditch like so much dirt. It was not possible that he would have given a Syrian lad such an ornament of gold. Mena thought of the Syrian soldiers who had escorted the captain not so many days ago, and who were now with Bela. They might have killed the captain and taken the tribute. They might have used it to buy alliance with the shepherds. They might have brought the letter back to arouse the town.
      Mena saw it all, and he saw one other thing clearly. If the tribute were delayed, a force from Gaza would come. Indeed, it must have come already, had not the Gaza prefect needed to collect sufficient troops to fight his way through the hills. In vain was the errand of Thothmes. Help would arrive if Bela were fool enough to wait for it, and if there were rain. Time and water would save him. If Bela were expecting a secret surrender, he might be willing to haggle, even to ransom his son with water, provided it were not enough to last a second day. Mena thought he would waken the Nubian and persuade him first to try this plan.

      It was indeed not till noon that Bela gave them water, and little enough for men who had spent a hot morning shouting over terms. They consumed it all before they lowered his dead son down to Bela, for as Mena said, "When he sees he has been cheated, he will assault."
      The dead man was received with screams of fury and showers of arrows, which came rattling about the parapet, but did no one any harm. There was no mad rush across the square, as Mena had expected. Instead, there was much hammering, and smoke arose throughout the town. "They are making sure of us," said Mena to the king. "This time they will attack with pitch and fire."
Abishua made no answer to that, but looked at the heavens. "I think that it will rain tonight," said he.
      Mena smiled. "Old friend, you and I will never see that rain." Nevertheless, his mind was already busy with a scheme to cause delay. If the storm would but come early, it might be possible that Bela would wait until the tower was dry again.
      "How many trumpets have we?" said he to the Nubian.
      "Three, my captain."
      "Do you and the two Amorites take them and stand by the outer wall. When Bela's signal for attack is given, lift them up and blow them hard. Blow for your lives, and let the echoes answer as if the men from Gaza were to be heard behind the hill. Bela may delay to see why his scouts have not yet warned him, and he will consider what he had best do to save the town. If half an hour is lost in such confusion, it may yet rain." He spoke with boldness, yet he did not think that the storm could come in time.
      "They are attacking," called a watcher by the battlements. "I can see their engines rumbling forward through the town.”
      "Blow then!" said Mena. He stood up and gripped his dagger, for no other weapon was light enough to be held in his damaged hand. "Lift up the trumpets and blow!" He glanced at the hills and reckoned yet an hour before the storm.

      The soldiers blew, and the distant hills re-echoed. They waited as though listening, and blew again.
      "They have halted," cried the sentry. "There is confusion in the town."
      "Shout!"
      They shouted and the trumpeters blew once more.
      "That was no echo," cried the younger Amorite. "That was a trumpet!"
      "Blow again! "
      They blew, and amid the echoes rolling back, there certainly appeared to be a sound. If aid were near, it was not near enough, thought Mena. It would arrive with the storm. Nevertheless, he repeated, "Blow once more!"
      Over the hillside, a man came running, shouting. He waved his arms to those who watched in the valley lest Mena and his men escape that way. He pointed furiously at the road behind him, and forward at the town.
      "Help will come with the storm," said Mena, "but its report comes now, and that may save us. What use to fire the tower and lose the town?" They watched two men cutting up across the hillside, making a long detour to the second gate. The engines moving out of the alleys had stopped, and the crowd had melted. Torches had been thrown down and trampled underfoot. In the valley the scout had already reached the watchers. They crowded round him and were seen gesturing, until with one consent they too began to run toward the town.
      "The Gaza men are in strength, it seems, said Mena. "Bela would be wise to save himself by flight into the hills." He walked across and sat down by Abishua, leaning his head against the wall and closing his eyes. "I have not slept since all this started," he said, "but it will be over now."
      "It is over for us," said old Abishua in a whisper. "You and I will never rule or fight again."
      "They must send you Abdi-khita now,” said Mena. "They cannot let the power go to one of Bela's men. As for me, old friend, I shall revisit Egypt and see water running through the green fields once again." His head jerked forward on his breast, and he lifted it, peering. "I will leave you Thothmes," he added, "if by chance he is not dead. He was born in this town and will serve you and Egypt without ever aspiring to be other than he is."
      The Nubian blew again. Mena slipped gently sideways and drifted off into an unconsciousness filled with murmuring streams.