'Their plight is ignored by all Europe!' Eliza said, and Jack realized too late he'd set her off. A torrential rant ensued. If only her head was still wrapped in those fake bandages – some tightening and knotting and his troubles would be over. Instead, by paying out the reins Jack was able to lead the noble horse, which he'd named, or re-named, Turk, from a distance, much as the Corsair-ship in Eliza's ridiculous fable had towed the unspeakable fish-boat. Snatches and fragments of the Rant occasionally drifted his way. He learned that Mummy had been sold into the harem of an Ottoman military official at the Qasbah of Algiers, and in her copious spare time had founded the Society of Britannic Abductees, which now had branches in Morocco, Tripoli, Bizerta, and Fez; which met on a fortnightly rotation except during Ramadan; which had bylaws running to several hundred pages, which Eliza had to copy out by hand on filched Ottoman stationery whenever a new chapter was founded . . .