“We must go at once,” Selim exclaimed. “Where is this place?”

“We will find it,” Nefret said quietly. “But, Selim, we cannot leave this moment.”

I looked at her with surprise and admiration, for I had been about to make that point myself. As was so often the case, she could control her fiery temper when the occasion was desperate. The color had rushed back into her cheeks; they glowed as if with fever.

“Quite right,” I said. “We cannot set out in darkness, particularly when we don’t know the precise location of the place. Rabbi, how did you come by this message?”

But when I turned to address him, he was gone.

I DOUBT THAT ANY of us slept well that night. Emerson certainly did not; he kept tossing and turning and muttering to himself. We were all afire to be gone, but as I had pointed out, it would be folly to charge blindly ahead, risking an accident or missing the place in the dark. Paging patiently through my guidebook-whose index had no entry for “castles”-I had finally found a reference to a place that must be the one Ramses had referred to. Known as Tal’at-ed-dam, or “Hill of Blood,” it was described as the ruins of a Crusader castle, and I did not doubt that in its heyday the name had been only too appropriate. Under other circumstances I would have considered it a most interesting side trip.

The only other thing we could do before retiring was to make certain our means of transportation would be available on time. There was now no need to pack changes of clothing and other nonessentials, but we decided to retain the carriage in case David was not able to ride. Despite the press of new arrangements, I found time to inform Mr. Fazah that we would no longer be responsible for Plato’s hotel bills.

Lying awake beside my restless spouse, I addressed a little prayer of thanks to Him who watches over us-and also to the governesses and nannies who had instilled in me their notions of proper behavior. (My esteemed father had taught me languages but not manners; his own left a good deal to be desired.) Had I not had the courtesy to listen to the little rabbi, we might have set out on a fruitless quest, never knowing our dear ones were so close, and in mortal danger. I did not minimize that danger, despite Ramses’s offhand request for assistance. He hated asking for help, but I wished he had gone straight to the point and mentioned details such as the time and date. As it was, we had no idea how long the message had taken to reach us; it might have been days.

He and David must have been on their way to Jerusalem when David fell ill. The illness must be severe enough to prevent David from going on. I had packed every variety of medicine I had with me, and I knew Nefret had done the same. If only Ramses had had the decency to add a few more words that would give us a clue as to what ailed the boy, and how serious it was!

The friend who had offered to carry a message could not have been the rabbi; he was not the sort of person to go tramping in the hills. Grubby and tattered as the paper was, it might have passed through several hands before reaching its destination-and that destination was the rabbi. The final messenger had delivered it to him instead of going the rounds of the Jerusalem hotels.

What did it all mean? I was unable to concentrate on any single issue, my mind kept wandering off into irrelevant byways. I had just convinced myself I would not get a wink of sleep when I was awakened by a knock at the door and a voice calling my name.

All the worries of the night came flooding back. I sprang out of bed, instantly alert, and fell over Emerson’s boots, which I had placed near the door in preparation for the morrow.

“Are you all right, Aunt Amelia?” Nefret asked.

“Yes, yes, and wide awake.” I rose, rubbing my shin. The room was pitch-dark-the utter darkness before the dawn, as some poet or other has put it.

Nefret had obviously been up for some time. She had rousted out (her phrase) the cook and had carried to our door, with her own hands, the beverage essential to Emerson’s arousal. On this occasion he was much easier to manage; like myself, he had been awake half the night, itching to be on our way. When we assembled on the steps of the hotel the sky was still black, but my watch, which I never neglect to wind, assured me dawn was not far distant. I beheld not a single star. The morning fog had moved in, mixing with the varied and noxious effluvia of the city.

I had expected we would be the only early risers, but I had overlooked the dedication (or zealotry) of religious persons. The group of pilgrims that had made such a memorable impression must have a distant holy destination on their agenda for the day; they were assembled in the dining salon. Daoud cast a longing glance in that direction; observing it, Nefret assured him she had asked that picnic baskets be ready.

Selim was waiting with the drivers and mounts we had ordered. Nefret was the first in the saddle. To his disgust, Daoud was relegated to the carriage, which was drawn by two sturdy horses. Selim had been unable to find a horse that was up to his weight. The one assigned to me was almost as small as a pony, which was reassuring; but when I approached the creature it shied back, showing the whites of its eyes.

“That damned belt of tools is spooking the horse, Peabody,” said Emerson, already mounted. “Take it off.”

“I cannot proceed without my accoutrements, Emerson. They jangle a bit, to be sure, but we may need one or all of them before the day is over.”

“Then get in the carriage with Daoud,” said Emerson shortly.

I did so, not without a certain feeling of relief. I am not an accomplished horse woman and the pony had obviously taken a dislike to me.

The carriage driver, hunched over and well wrapped up against the chill of the morning, cracked his whip, and we were off, with Emerson, Nefret, and Selim in the lead. Someone, probably Nefret, had ascertained the quickest route out of the city. With a minimum of delay, for the streets were comparatively empty at that hour, we reached the Damascus Gate and left the city proper. The population had spilled out beyond the walls; we passed several fine villas and groups of houses. The sun peeped over the horizon. The recently completed road allowed for reasonable speed, but I was pleased to see that Emerson, now in the lead, kept a moderate pace. We must not be separated, I had told him.

We had been on our way for slightly more than an hour when we rounded a curve and saw ahead a barricade guarded by a group of Turkish soldiers. Observing Emerson, who was hard to miss, the officer stepped forward and held up his hand.

I saw no other vehicles or individuals waiting. It was as I had feared. Someone had anticipated our intentions-and I thought I could guess who. I gripped my parasol tightly, prepared for combat if it became necessary. We dared not risk delay.

I should not have doubted my admirable spouse. Instead of stopping, he urged the horse into a gallop and burst through the barricade, shattering the flimsy wooden structure into splinters. The soldiers scattered in panic as Nefret and Selim thundered down on them. I poked my driver with my parasol. “Faster,” I cried. “Yallah, yallah, do not stop.”

He may have thought it was a knife at his back (as I believe I have mentioned, my parasols have extremely sharp points) or he may have been carried away by the general stampede. Emitting a loud cry, he brandished his whip. Stony dust and a rain of small pebbles flew up from below the horses’ hooves as they dashed forward. We met with no impediment; the riders ahead of us had removed them.

Gripping the side of the carriage, which was swaying and bouncing, I looked back. No one appeared to have been seriously injured; the soldiers were slowly getting to their feet and the officer was expostulating (to judge by his impassioned gestures) with a person on horseback.