his life for their sakes, was binding up the wounds, which were wide and deep, when suddenly a sabre stroke came down on the back of his head and neck, and a dark stream of blood rushed forth.  But he, too, was soon avenged:  the old shipwright hewed down his foe with his heavy axe.  On the eastern shore, meanwhile, the men charged to kill the Arabs’ horses were doing their work, so as to prevent any who might escape from returning to Fostat, or riding forward to Doormat and reporting what had occurred.

On board silence now prevailed.  All five Arabs were stretched on the deck, and the insatiate boatmen were dealing a finishing stroke to those who were only wounded.  A sailor, who had taken refuge up a mast, could see how the other five horsemen had plunged into the bog to avoid the fire and had disappeared beneath the waters; so that none of the Moslems had escaped alive—­not even that one which Fate and romance love to save as a bearer of the disastrous tidings.

By degrees the nuns ventured out on deck again.

Those who were skilled in tending the wounded gathered round them, and opened their medicine cases; as they proceeded on their voyage, under the guidance of the steersman, they had their hands full of work and the zeal they gave to it mitigated the torment of the heat.

The bodies of the five Moslems and eight Christians—­among these, two of the Greek ship-wrights—­were laid on the shore in groups apart, in the neighborhood of a village; in the hand of one of them the abbess placed a tablet with this inscription: 

“These eight Christians met their death bravely fighting to defend a party of pious and persecuted believers.  Pray for them and bury them as well as those who, in obedience to their duty and their commander, took their lives.”

Rufinus, lying with his head on the gardener’s knee, and sheltered from the sun under the abbess’ umbrella, presently recovered his senses; looking about him he said to himself in a low voice, as he saw the captain lying by his side: 

“I, too, had a wife and a dear child at home, and yet—­Ah! how this aches!  We may well do all we can to soothe such pain.  The only reality here below is not pleasure, it is pain, vulgar, physical pain; and though my head burns and aches more than enough.—­Water, a drink of water.—­How comfortable I could be at this moment with my Joanna, in our shady house.  —­But yet, but yet—­we must heal or save, it is all the same, any who need it.—­A drink—­wine and water, if it is to be had, worthy Mother!”

The abbess had it at hand; as she put the cup to his lips she spoke her warm and effusive thanks, and many words of comfort; then she asked him what she could do for him and his, when they should be in safety.

“Love them truly,” he said gently.  “Pul will certainly never be quite happy till she is in a convent.  But she must not leave her mother—­she must stay with her; Joanna-Joanna. . . .”