quarter of Jerusalem, close by the Jaffa Gate, with the Tower of Hippicus frowning down upon it.
The whole extent of the city lay beneath the windows in a glorious panorama, washed as it was in the brilliant morning light. Far beyond, a dark shadow yet, the Olivet range rose in background to the minarets and cupolas below it.
His eye roved over the prospect, marking and recognising the buildings.
There was the purple dome of the great Mosque of Omar, very clear against the amber-primrose lights of dawn.
Where now the muezzin called to Allah, the burnt-offerings had once smoked in the courts of the Temple—it was in that spot the mysterious veil had parted in symbol of God's pain and death. It was in the porches bounding the court of the Gentiles that Christ had taught.
Closer, below the Antonia Tower, rose the dark, lead-covered cupola of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
Great emotion came to him as he gazed at the shrine sacred above all others for so many centuries.
He thought of that holy spot diminished in its ancient glory in the eyes of half the Christian world.
Perhaps no more would the Holy Fire burst forth from the yellow, aged marble of the Tomb at Easter time.
Who could say?
Was not he, Harold Spence, there to try that awful issue?
He wondered, as he gazed, if another Easter would still see the wild messengers bursting away to Nazareth and Bethlehem bearing The Holy Flame.
The sun became suddenly more powerful. It threw a warmer light into the grey dome, and, deep down,
