gate, he read an inscription on which the light fell from a lamp above:
The House of the Holy Martyr.  His widow here offers shelter to all who
need it.  He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord." 

"At how much per cent I wonder?" mattered the old man and a satirical
smile curled his bearuless lips.  A heavy thud with the knocker rang
through the silent street, and after a few short questions from within
and equally curt replies from without, a small door was opened in the
great gate.  The stranger was on the point of crossing the vestibule when
a human creature crept up to him on all fours, and clutched his ancle
with a strong hand, exclaiming in a hoarse voice: "As soon as the door
is shut--an entrance fee; for the poor, you know." 

The old man flung a copper piece to the gatekeeper who tried it, and
then, holding on to the rope by which he was tied to a post like a watch-
dog, he whined out "Not a drop to wet a Christian's lips?" 

"It has not rained for some time," retorted the stranger, who proceeded
to open a second door which led into a vast court-yard open to the blue
vault of heaven.  A few torches stuck against the pillars and a small