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Newspaper Page Text
fakir was gone, apparently through
the closed door!
He called his wife and told her.
She was positive nobody had en
tered the house. She was afraid.
"I wish we'd never come to this
heathentsh place," she sobbed
"These people are devils. And with
the talk of an uprising I I wish I
were back in Des Moines, that I do !"
N Days passed and the rumors of a
native outbreak Increased. The gar
rison, depleted on account of the
war, was insufficient to overawe the
fanatics who paraded the street,
threatening death to all foreigners
on the occasion of the great annual
festival that was to take place the
following week. The Europeans were
advised to leave. Smith, wavering
between the double duty, at last de
cided to take his wife down to the
They were in the midst of packing
when the storm broke. A distant
murmur rose into a yelL A mob
armed with swords came rushing
through the streets, burning and
looting. The native servants had
Smith hurried his wife intothe lit
tle garden. A glance showed them
that their escape was intercepted. As
the bearer of the hated tidings of an
other faith he was marked for the
fury of the rioters. The crowd swept
thiough the garden gate. At their
head, his eyes alight with fanaticism,
was the fakir, torch and sword in
"Kill! Kill!" the mob shouted.
Smith very simply placed him arm
about Mary's waist and together they
waited for the end.
With a yell the fakir raised his
sword and thrust. Smith saw his
wife fall pierced through the heart.
Red swam before his eyes and he
rushed on the savage with clenched
fists. But he saw the sword bright
before him, felt a blow on his breast,
and, unconscious of pain, realized
that the fakir was withdrawing the
he toppled to the ground. .And he
remembered, with strange incongru-
ity, that this was Thursday.
He heard the yelling mob sweep,
onward 'and with his last effort he,
groped toward his wife, found her
hand and held it. And then con
sciousness forsook him.
Somebody was bending over him,
stroking his forehead. He opened
his eyes. He saw his wife kneeling
over him. ;
"Thank God you are alive, Ar-4
thur!" she whispered. "Are you hurt?
Try to rise."
He sprang to his feet, staring ati
her in bewilderment. There was not .
a wound upon her; and, looking
down, he could see none on himself.
"Mary! What has happened?" he
"I don't know, Arthur," she an
sweredt looking at him in equal as-,
tonishment. "I thought I saw you
"And you?" he cried in wonder.
And then he realized that both had
been the victims of the fakir's illu
sion; that the man had saved them,
either by sleight of hand or by ac
complishing some one of those illu
sions that the fakirs perform for the ,
entertainment of their audiences.
They fell into each other's arms.
In the distance were the dwindling
cries of the mob. Their house was ,
uninjured. And, as they stood there,
they saw a troop of cavalry ride
down the street, driving the muti
neers before them, cutting them
down with their swords.
"At least I did not desert my post,"
said Smith. And with sudden grate
fulness to the fakir he took Mary in
his arms again. They had never felt
so near to one another. ,
Smith looked up with a start He
was back in his library, and before
him stood the fakir, still holding out
his copper bowl and whining.
"You give no pice to poor fakir?"
asked the man.
Smith looked up over his shoulder.
hilt from his own body. In a swoon 1 When the man had entered, the room