tache, and began to wring his hands. The Mahdi, however, did not cease to smile.
"But," he said, "you are at the fountain of truth. Do you want to drink at that fountain?"
A moment of silence followed; so the Mahdi, thinking the boy did not understand the question, repeated it more plainly.
"Do you desire to accept my doctrines?"
To this Stas imperceptibly made a sign of the holy cross with his hand which he held at his breast, as though he was about to leap from a sinking ship into a watery chaos.
"Prophet," he said, "your doctrines I do not know; therefore if I accepted them, I would do it out of fear like a coward and a base man. Are you anxious that your faith should be professed by cowards and base people?"
And speaking thus he looked steadfastly in the eyes of the Mahdi. It became so quiet that only the buzz of flies could be heard. But at the same time something extraordinary had happened. The Mahdi became confused, and for the nonce did not know what reply to make. The smile vanished from his face, on which was reflected perplexity and displeasure. He stretched out his hand, took hold of the gourd, filled it with water and honey, and began to drink, but obviously only to gain time and to conceal his confusion.
And the brave boy, a worthy descendant of the defenders of Christianity, of the true blood of the victors at Khoczim and Vienna, stood with upraised head, awaiting his doom. On his emaciated cheeks, tanned by the desert winds, bloomed bright blushes, his eyes glittered, and his body quivered with the thrill of ardor. "All others," he soliloquized, "accepted his doctrines, but I have denied neither my faith nor my soul." And fear before what might
