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would no longer feel disgraced. They would be predisposed to accept the
explanation. To run from a madman with a rifle—well, who wouldn’t?
    It was clear to me that one only needed a little cunning. I have no faith in plans, which are always worthless, but when it comes to putting on a comedy I am in my element. Any experienced
sergeant-major has acquired a sense of stage management.
    I told the four to keep silent about my intentions, and that in a day or two I would have something to propose. At work and in the silence of the night I rehearsed the scene in my imagination,
and when I had convinced myself that it would succeed, I talked to Helena. She was appalled when I told her that to save our little town I had determined to confess. Since Ferjeyn had not demanded
the sacrifice, she saw no necessity for it at all. She was quite ready to exchange her house for some filthy Moslem hovel. When she had cleaned it for a month, she insisted, we should not know the
difference.
    And then she relieved herself with tears. She could not sleep, she told me—myself I am always drowned in sleep—for terror of what might happen to the boys if ever it became known to
the Moslems that I alone had been responsible for so many deaths. I think it was she who put the idea into the head of her father.
    She claimed the right of wife and children to go with me, if I must confess and escape. But that was impossible. She had no conception of the life of an outlaw. To cross, all of us, into Turkey
or Iraq was easy. And what then? A man accompanied by his family must have open dealings with strangers and foreign police. I was a French deserter. I could not account for myself—unless I
gave my identity as Nadim Nassar of Ferjeyn. And if I did that, we should never have an hour when we could feel safe.
    No. Alone I could vanish and perhaps remake a life. Meanwhile she would be living in comfort on her own land with her father to protect her.
    Then I explained to her how I meant to save the children from blood feud. She was wise in the ways of her country, and she agreed that my scheme was possible. But not in one single detail must
it fail. Raving and clowning, she said, would not be enough. To convince my public I must commit some horror that no Arab—if he were only pretending to be mad—would ever dream of. And
that was to shoot her.
    We were a model couple. The wives of Ferjeyn would hold me up to their husbands as a paragon. That was easier for them than to try to imitate Helena. If I could have brought myself to do so, I
would have beaten her once or twice just to make the lives of my friends more peaceful. Even the Moslems spoke of Nadim Nassar and his wife. And so, if I were seen to aim at her and shoot, there
would be no doubt that I was mad.
    She insisted. She had no fear. She thought that a soldier such as I could pick his target, and even in a moment of emotion separate one toe from the rest. But she knew her people. There does not
exist an Arab—unless trained by Europeans—who could aim at his wife and be sure of not hitting her. For them it would be an act of homicidal lunacy impossible to feign.
    It was only the four notables of Ferjeyn whom I let into the secret. The rest of my fellow-townsmen continued to be left in ignorance. John Douaihy was certain that they too would be convinced I
was mad. He had no fear for his daughter. It is extraordinary how the Arabs, who are always letting off firearms, never trouble to find out what is practical and what is not.
    We sent messengers to the headmen of the villages in the plain. Nothing was said of peace-making and compensation. We hinted—in a courteous tone of regret for old times—that the
government would not allow us to take the initiative. All we wanted was an informal meeting to settle up our business affairs with old Moslem friends. We said, too—to tempt their
avarice—that we might be selling some land and stock before the exchange of population.
    The