Nearby lay a twisted form, whose bloodstained garment and staring eyes told me the sad truth even before I knelt at his side. Long curling sidelocks proclaimed him to be of the Jewish faith. I closed his eyes and bowed my head. Not knowing what words might be deemed appropriate, I decided that the Twenty-third Psalm ought to be safe. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…” I broke off midway when I realized that by my side stood a tall dignified figure robed in black and crowned with a broad-brimmed hat of the same somber hue.

“That was a well-meant gesture, Mrs. Emerson,” he said in heavily accented English. “But you can leave him and the others of our faith to us now. I am Rabbi Ben Yehuda.”

“How do you know my name?” I asked.

“Your name is well known in this city, as is that of your distinguished husband.”

Emerson advanced upon us. I did not blame the rabbi for staring, since Emerson did not in the least resemble a distinguished scholar. Black hair wildly windblown, garments torn, face streaked with blood, he announced in stentorian tones, “That takes care of that bastard Morley. The soldiers have escorted him to safety, and…Who the devil is this?”

I introduced the rabbi. “Hmph,” said Emerson, fixing him with a critical stare. “Where were you, sir, while your coreligionists were trying to slaughter fellow human beings on this sacred ground?”

The rabbi was at least six inches shorter than Emerson, but he met the latter’s eyes with an equally hostile gaze. “It was not we, sir, who began the fighting.”

“Oh, I feel certain everyone pitched in,” Emerson agreed. “I will have the same question to ask the sheikh of the mosque. And will, I do not doubt, receive the same evasive answer. Once hostilities had begun it was your duty, and his, to stop them. Instead you left it to an infidel like myself to speak the word ‘peace.’”

“It was another of your kind whose actions broke the peace” was the angry response.

“Ha,” said Emerson, eyes sparkling at the prospect of argumentation. “See here, sir-”

“Now, Emerson, we have no time for this sort of thing,” I said firmly.

The rabbi signified his agreement by turning on his heel and walking away. There were still a few bodies lying about, but I concluded that, given the reception my assistance had hitherto received, I could be of no further use. I was about to allow Emerson to lead me away when a very small gentleman sidled toward us. I concluded from his dress that he was also a rabbi, though his attire was not as elegant as that of Ben Yehuda. His robe was patched, his wide-brimmed hat worn down to the nap, and his graying beard was wildly disheveled, as if he had been clawing at it.

“I wish to thank,” he said in halting English. “For helping.”

“He has better manners than the other one,” Emerson remarked to me.

“Hush, Emerson. Your thanks are unnecessary, reverend sir. Is that the correct mode of address?”

The little rabbi looked bewildered, so I rephrased the question. “What should I call you?”

“Ah. Rabbi Ben Ezra you should call me. I live on David Street, all know me. Come to me when you want help.”

He drew himself up to his full height, which was approximately the same as mine, and nodded emphatically. The offer was ludicrous but made with such obvious goodwill that Emerson managed to keep his face straight. “Thank you,” he said with equal gravity.

“Thanks are unnecessary. Are we not all sons of Abraham?”

“As a matter of fact,” Emerson began.

I raised my voice. “We must go, Emerson. Good day, Rabbi Ben Ezra.”

“Why must you always start an argument,” I hissed, drawing Emerson away. “The poor fellow was trying to be friendly.”

“Well, but you are not a son of Abraham, being female,” said Emerson. “And I am not because no such person existed. Hmph. Where have I heard those words before?”

I stepped carefully over a pool of blood. “From your dear old villainous friend Kamir, the other morning.”

“Hmmm, yes. Doesn’t it strike you as odd that two such disparate persons should use the same phrase?”

“Not at all, Emerson. If you had actually read Genesis, instead of pretending you had, you would know that the sons of Abraham were Isaac, the progenitor of the Jewish people, and Ishmael, the father of the Arab race.”

“I did read it,” Emerson said indignantly. “And a fine moral tale that one was. For a man to cast his firstborn son and that son’s mother into the desert to die because his jealous wife told him to-”

He was forced to leave off because we were accosted by Mr. Glazebrook (the British consul), who came hurrying toward us.

“Good Gad, sir,” he exclaimed. “That was-I must say, sir-you are a credit to the British nation! Our prestige in this city must increase as a result of your heroic action. Though I must say-”

“I would prefer you did not,” said Emerson. “Come, Peabody. We have already wasted too much time on this business.”

We got rid of Mr. Glazebrook by walking so briskly he could not keep up, and returned to the hotel. Our three friends were waiting in the lobby in a state of some agitation. When we failed to appear for breakfast they had questioned the person at the desk and learned that we had gone out to join in a riot. As Daoud explained, this had seemed reasonable enough to him, but Nur Misur had thought otherwise, and Selim had considered it unlikely that I would do so, though it was not unlikely that Emerson would. Rumors of death and destruction had spread with the speed of light, and by the time we arrived the entire place was abuzz and some of the more timid pilgrims were fluttering about like chickens that had seen a hawk, not knowing whether to hide or flee.

Once again Emerson’s formidable presence calmed the storm.

“The disturbance has ended,” he announced in the loudest possible voice. “There is no danger. Go about your business. What about breakfast, eh?”

This last to me. I acquiesced, for the morning’s activity had left me quite peckish, and we all proceeded into the dining salon. In response to our friends’ questions, I explained what had occurred.

“But, Professor,” Nefret exclaimed. “You are injured. Come upstairs and let me-”

“Just a bump on the head,” said Emerson, shoveling in eggs and toast. “Hurry and finish, all of you. We must be on our way. Where is that fellow-er-”

“Hiding in his room, I think,” said Selim, who fully agreed with Emerson’s refusal to mention Plato’s name.

“Go and roust him out,” Emerson ordered. “From now on I want him under my eye.”

I persuaded Emerson to allow me to examine his injuries, which were, as I had realized, superficial. He had an impressive lump on his cranium, but as he pointed out with perfect equanimity, that portion of his anatomy had frequently suffered in such a manner. We returned to the lobby, where I arranged for porters to carry the supplies I had purchased the night before. Selim had Plato firmly by the arm; Nefret and Daoud were waiting; and so was a slim young man with a little blond mustache. He was still twisting his hat.

I had completely forgotten about him. Emerson would have said so and was, I believe, about to do just that when I bade Mr. Camden a courteous good-morning.

“I was here at eight,” he hastened to remark. “But no one seemed to know where you had gone, and then you went to breakfast, and I did not like-”

“Most considerate, ’pon my word,” said Emerson. “Well, well, let us be off.”

We made an imposing procession, proceeding two by two like the animals entering the Ark, Emerson and I in the lead, Nefret behind us with Selim, and Daoud towing Mr. Plato. The latter had protested making one of the party, claiming that his throat was sore, his head ached, and his feet hurt. Needless to say, his complaints had no effect on Emerson, nor on Daoud. Mr. Camden trailed along behind, followed by a string of porters carry ing my purchases.