“The biped!” he shouted.  “The Measel in the corn-bin!”

They dropped the old ladies, and all four of us raced back to our hole in the wall—­plunged into the hell-hot building, pulled the lid off the corn-bin (it was fastened like an ancient Egyptian coffin-lid with several stout Wooden pegs), dragged Measel out, and frog-marched him, kicking and yelling, to the open, where Fred collapsed.

“Measel,” said Will, stooping to feel Fred’s heart, “if you’re the cause of my friend Oakes’ death, Lord pity you!”

Fred sat up, not that he wished to save the “biped” any anguish, but the wise man vomits comfortably when he can, the necessity being bad enough without additional torment.

“See!” said a voice out of darkness.  “He empties himself!  That is well.  It is only the end of the fever.  Now he will be a man again.  But the sahibs should have left that writer of characters in the corn-bin, where he could have shared the fate of his master without troubling us again!”

Rustum Khan strode into the light, with half his fierce beard burned away from having been the last to leave by the front entrance, and a decided limp from having been kicked by a frantic mule.

“What have you done with the German?” demanded Monty.

“I, sahib?  Nothing.  In truth nothing.  It was the seven sons of the Turk—­abetted I should say by gipsies.  It was the German who set the place alight.  The girl, Maga Jhaere they call her, saw him do it.  She watched like a cat, the fool, hoping to amuse herself, while he burned off his ropes with a brand that fell his way out of the fire.  When another brand jumped half across the room he set the place alight with it, tossing it over the party wall.  He was an able rascal, sahib.”

“Was?” demanded Monty.

“Aye, sahib, was!  In another second he released the Turkish lieutenant and shouted in his ear to escape and say that Armenians burned this kahveh!  Gregor Jhaere slew the Turk, however.  And Maga followed the German into the open, where she denounced him to some of the Zeitoonli who recently arrived.  They took him and threw him back into the fire—­where he remained.  I begin to like these Zeitoonli.  I even like the gipsies more than formerly.  They are men of some discernment, and of action!”

“Man of blood!” growled Monty.  “What of the Turkish owner and his seven sons?”

“They shall burn, too, if the sahib say so!”

“If they burn, so shall you!  Where is Kagig?”

“Seeing that the sahibs’ horses are packed and saddled.  I came to find the sahibs.  According to Kagig it is time to go, before Turks come to take vengeance for a burned road-house.  They will surely say Armenians burned it, whether or not there is a German to support their accusation!”

Then we heard Kagig’s high-pitched “Haide—­chabuk!” and picked up Peter Measel, and ran around the building to where the horses were already saddled, and squealing in fear of the flames.  We left the Turk, and his wives and seven sons, to tell what tale they pleased.