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little Jeanne. We're for St. Denis before the Red Duke twists our gullet in a rope necklace. Come away!"
    "Nay," she laughed, "there's no fair fiddling out of Paris."
    Giron grumbled under his breath, jerked his thumb at Pied-a-Botte, and the two rogues vanished with their packs. Jeanne looked at the ground. "You'll be wanting, Messire Hugh, to ride from the city before the hour of closing the gates. The duke, they say, hath a long arm and a long memory for vengeance."
    But he was looking at the bright head hovering near his arm. The sight of her caught at his heart as if she had laid some witchery upon him. "And what of thee, little Jeanne? Sure it is the duke will not forget thee."
    "No harm ever comes to me."
    "Then will I see to it." He put his arm about her, pressing his head against the tangle of red-gold tresses. "For I will be riding to the south, and I will be taking you with me. 'Tis fair in my hills."
    "There's no good fiddling out of Paris, messire," she said slowly. "And I-I am of these streets, having no love for your hills and olive trees and cattle."
    "That is even a lie. Giron hath told me how you have ever the love of the place of your nourishing. And I will not cease from wanting you. So if you abide in Paris, so do I. Faith, now you must hide me from the duke's anger and heal me these wounds of mine."
    "Healed you are already, Hugh of Bearn! You fought a champion this day at hand strokes."
    "Yet never will I be quit of the spell you have laid upon me, little Jeanne."
    Full into his eyes she looked swiftly, seeing in them a strange hunger. Fear of what she had done filled the girl. "May the good God forgive me!" she cried, and turned to him suddenly. "Now get this horse of yours going, and I will show you the way."
    Around strange corners she guided him, to a tall house. Dismounting here, they climbed to the top of the stairs and Jeanne went to the curtained door. At her summons the dark figure of the Arab appeared. He welcomed them gravely, for he had heard what had passed at the Hotel St. Pol.
    "'Tis a cure he must have," Jeanne pointed to the southerner, "for the-for that-oh, you know well the elixir I mean. He hath taken from it a kind of fever, and, pardie, it was a sinful thing I did."
    Glancing at the flushed faces of the lad and the girl, Athir smiled. "Jeanne," he said, "I know no remedy save one for this ailment Messire Hugh hath now."
    "Then give it him."
    "That only can you do-I have naught will serve him."
    Dismayed, the girl chewed her lip, until she flung up her head with quick resolve. "Tell him, then-I cannot. Tell him what elixir I had from you, and gave him secretly."
    Turning to his table, the Arab took from it a long vial half full of a red fluid which Jeanne recognized instantly. "This? I keep it for patrons who are more credulous than wise. By Allah," he smiled, "it is no more than spirits of wine which we call al-kahol. And this-" he took from a bowl a pinch of gray powder-"is pepper. Nay, little Jeanne, there is no elixir of the kind you sought."
    "What," demanded Hugh impatiently, "is all this talk of drinks?"
    Jeanne drew a long breath and her eyes flashed warningly at the Arab. "It is no matter," she said with dignity. "Come away now, I pray thee, Messire Hugh-to thy hills, if it must be. But come quickly."

Thus said Khalil el Khadr, my good lord, the far-wandering, the wise, the truth-telling, and the never-fearing lord my master, favored of God-Khalil the Badawan who came from no city but the sands of Yamen, who rode to the great city of the iron men, the Franks-and of this city was his tale, often told to me, the unworthy, the. scribe. Upon teller and hearer be the peace of God! Thus said he:
Praise to the Giver, who hath bestowed upon men the earth, with its vast spaces to wander in!
    It was the year 6o3.* It was near the setting of the sun, in the bazaar of the metalworkers, which is a narrow street looking out upon the water. The water of the port of Costatinah was