“Oh, that’s all right, you two!  Make the most of it!  Spoon all you want to!  My girl’s in the clutches of an outlaw!  Kiss her if you want to—­I won’t mind!”

I dropped her hand as if it were hot lead.  As a matter of fact I had hardly been conscious of holding it.

“Oh, no, don’t mind me!” continued the “martyred biped” in a tone combining sarcasm, envy and impudence.

“Shall I kill him?” I asked.

“No! no!” she said.  “Don’t be violent—­don’t—­”

Peter Measel, whom we had inevitably utterly forgotten, was sitting up with his back propped against a stone and his legs stretched straight in front of him, enjoying the situation with all the curiosity of his unchastened mind.  I hove a lump of clay at him, but missed, and the effort made my headache worse.

“If you think you can frighten me into silence you’re mistaken!” he sneered, getting up and crawling behind the rock to protect himself.  But it needed more than a rock to hide him from the fury that took hold of me and sent me in pursuit in spite of Gloria’s remonstrance.

Viewed as revenge my accomplishment was pitiful, for I had to chase the poor specimen for several minutes, my headache growing worse at every stride, and he yelling for mercy like a cur-dog shown the whip, while the Armenians—­women and little children as well as men—­looked on with mild astonishment and Gloria objected volubly.  He took to the clay slope at last in hope that his light weight would give him the advantage; and there at last I caught him, and clapped a big gob of clay in his mouth to stop his yelling.

Even viewed as punishment the achievement did not amount to much.  I kicked him down the clay slope, and he was still blubbering and picking dirt out of his teeth when Will shouted that he had found a foot-track.

“Do you understand why you’ve been kicked?” I demanded.

“Yes.  You’re afraid I’ll tell Mr. Yerkes!”

“Oh, leave him!” said Gloria.  “I’m sorry you touched him.  Let’s go!”

“It was as much your fault as his, young woman!” snarled the biped, getting crabwise out of my reach.  “You’ll all be sorry for this before I’m through with you!”

I was sorry already, for I had had experience enough of the world to know that decency and manners are not taught to that sort of specimen in any other way than by letting him go the length of his disgraceful course.  Carking self-contempt must be trusted to do the business for him in the end.  Gloria was right in the first instance.  I should have let him alone.

However, it was not possible to take his threat seriously, and more than any man I ever met he seemed to possess the knack of falling out of mind.  One could forget him more swiftly than the birds forget a false alarm.  I don’t believe any of us thought of him again until that night in Zeitoon.