“To hell with them!” suggested Jeremy, reaching for more tea.

“But Feisul’s not easy to irritate,” Grim went on.  “He’s one of those rare men, who get born once in an epoch, who force you to believe that virtue isn’t extinct.  He’s almost like a child in some things—­like a good woman in others—­and a man of iron courage all the time, who can fire Arabs in the same way Saladin did five centuries ago.”

“He looks like a saint,” said Jeremy.  “I’ve seen him.”

“But he’s no soft liver,” continued Grim.  “He was brought up in the desert among Bedouins, and has their stoical endurance with a sort of religious patience added.  Gets that maybe from being a descendant of the Prophet.”

“Awful sort to have to fight, that kind are,” said Jeremy.  “They wear you down!”

“So the French decided some time ago to persuade Feisul’s intimates to make a bad break which he couldn’t repudiate.”

“Why don’t he cut loose with forty or fifty thousand men and boot the French into the sea?” demanded Jeremy.  “I’ll make one to help him!  I knew a Frenchman once, who—­”

“We’ll come to that presently,” said Grim.  “I dare say you didn’t hear of Verdun.”

“Objection sustained.  Hand it to ’em.  They’ve got guts,” grinned Jeremy.  “Fire away, old top.”

“Well, they ran foul of an awkward predicament, which is that there are some darned decent fellows among the officers of their army of occupation.  There’s more than a scattering of decent gentlemen who don’t like dirt.  I won’t say they tell Feisul secrets, or disobey orders; but if you want to give a man a square deal there are ways of doing it without sending him telegrams.”

Mabel put the tea back on the kerosene stove to stew, with an extra handful of black leaves in it.  Grim continued: 

“Another thing:  The French are half afraid that if they take the field against Feisul on some trumped-up pretext, he’ll get assistance from the British.  They could send him things he needs more than money, and can’t get.  Ninety-nine per cent of the British are pro-Feisul.  Some of them would risk their jobs to help him in a pinch.  The French have got to stall those men before they can attack Feisul safely.”

“How d’you mean—­stall ’em?” demanded Jeremy.  “Not all the British are fools—­only their statesmen, and generals, and sixty percent of the junior officers and rank and file.  The rest don’t have to be fed pap from a bottle; they’re good men.  Takes more than talk to stall that kind off a man they like.”

“You’ve got the idea, Jeremy.  You have to show them.  Well, why not stir up revolution here in Palestine in Feisul’s name?  Why not get the malcontents to murder Jews wholesale, with propaganda blowing full blast to make it look as if Feisul’s hand is directing it all?  It’s as simple as falling off a log.  French agents who look like honest Arabs approach the most hairbrained zealots who happen to be on the inside with Feisul, and suggest to them that the French and British are allies; therefore the only way to keep the British from helping the French will be to start red-hot trouble in Palestine that will keep the British busy protecting themselves and the Jews.