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The noise awoke Peter Measel, and when we had finished making fools of ourselves I walked over to discover what he was saying. He was praying aloud nasally through the mouse-hole for us, not himself. I looked at my watch. It was two hours past midnight. "You fellows," I said, "it's Sunday. The martyred biped has just waked up and remembered it.
And for the cruelty of Constantine God sent him such a sickness that he became lazar and measel, and by the counsel of his physicians he got three thousand young children for to have cut their throats, for to have their blood in a bath all hot, and thereby he might be healed of his measelry.
And in that moment I recalled what Rustum Khan had once said about her being no true gipsy. "Go on," I urged her. "Peter Measel is an expert. He's a high priest. He knows it all." "Peter Measel is saying, God is ver' angry with Zeitoon and is sending to destroy such bloody people what plan fighting and rebellion." "I'll think it over," I said, moving to get up.
It clearly disconcerted him to have his inferiors in rank assert themselves. That accounted, no doubt, for the meek self-effacement of the Turks who had come with him. Peter Measel did not appear to mind being rebuked. He crossed to the other side of the room, and proceeded to look the gipsies over with the air of a learned ethnologist.
Kagig was going to answer, but thought better of it and strode away in the lead, we following. He did not stop until we reached the open and the smoking ruins of the castle walls. When he stopped: "Has any one seen Peter Measel?" I asked. "Forget him!" growled Will. "Why?" demanded Maga. "Will you bury him in that same hole with them two?" "Has any one seen him?"
"Yes!" snapped Kagig suddenly. "You, Maga!" Maga's and Kagig's eyes met, and again he had his way with her instantly. Peter Measel, standing over by the door, looked wistful and sighed noisily. "Why should you obey him?" he demanded, but Maga ignored him as she passed out, and Fred nudged me again. "A miracle!" he whispered. "Did you hear the martyred biped suggest rebellion to her?
Fred allowed his ribs to shake in silent laughter that annoyed the mule, and we had to catch Measel all over again because the beast's crude objections filled the martyred biped full of the desire to run. "Somebody must save that girl!" he panted. "And who else can do it? Who else is there?" "There's only you!" Fred agreed, choking down his mirth. "I'm glad you agree with me.
She went up to Will, who was squatted on folded skins by the chimney corner, and stood beside him, claiming him without a word. Her black hair hung down to her waist, and her bare feet, not cut or bruised like most of those that walk the hills unshod, shone golden in the firelight. I looked about for Peter Measel, expecting a scene, but he had taken himself off, perhaps in search of her.
Peter Measel produced a near-gold ring with a smirk almost of recklessness, a plain gold ring whose worn appearance called to mind the finger taken from a dead Kurd's cartridge pouch. It may be that Measel bought it, but neither Fred nor I spoke to him again, for half an hour.
There came blows suggestive of a woman on the housetops beating carpets. "D'you recollect the man I mentioned at the consulate the biped Peter Measel, missionary on his own account, who keeps a diary and libels ladies in it? Well, he's foul of a thalukdar* from Rajputana, and of a Prussian contractor, recruiting men for work on the Baghdad railway. I wasn't allowed to murder him.
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