II
In the wee hours of the morning, as the mantle of darkness which enshrouded the drowsy Orient commenced to melt away, Boyd Anniston and the Jew, Mochanda, embarked on a heavy, crude gondola for the Isle of Constantine.
"It is for water that I come to Kishm," explained Mochanda, as they glided from the shore. "Beautiful as is our island," he continued reflectively, "there is no fresh water upon it; nothing save stagnant sulphur pools, and springs reeking with alkali. We have a tiny stream which flows partly through the island, but the water is salty."
"That should not inconvenience you so greatly," drawled Anniston wearily. "Salt water is as good as fresh, for washing purposes."
"But we must drink."
"And would you drink water?"
"Certainly, Sahib, and do you not?"
Anniston shrugged his shoulders. "I have always considered it good enough to wash with," he rejoined, "but when I drink, I like to have flavor in the cup, a liquid with strength behind it."
Even as he spoke, the Armenian gondoliers drowsily lifted in their oars, and the boat grounded silently on
