CHAPTER XXIX.

"Be not discouraged, my son," was Yusuf's reply."Be not discouraged, my son," was Yusuf's reply.—Seepage 87.

The youth beside the pillar, though hewore Moslem garb, looked on in contempt; and, barely waiting for the conclusion of the ceremony, walked proudly from the enclosure, merely pausing to examine somewhat critically the Black Stone, which, deserted for the moment, was visible in the red light of a torch above. Then, passing through the nearest gate, he walked, rather feebly, towards the house of Amzi.

Yusuf, wearied after a long day's work, was resting upon the carpeted Mastabah (platform) which forms a part of the vestibule of every comfortable house in Mecca. There was no light in the apartment save that afforded by the dim glimmer of a fire-pan, over which bubbled a fragrant urn of coffee. His thoughts had been wandering back over the events of his changeful life; events which would culminate, as far as his immediate history was concerned, in his early banishment from this city of his adoption. The little Jewish band would go together—precisely where, they did not know,—Amzi, Manasseh, the family of Asru, a few other devoted souls, and, it was to be hoped, Kedar.

Yusuf's thoughts dwelt upon Kedar. To-night he seemed to feel a sweet assurance that his prayers in the youth's behalf were soon to be answered; and, in the darkness, he cried out for the lad's salvation, until the blessed Lord seemed so near that he almost fancied he could put forth his hand and feel the strong, loving, helping touch of Him who said, "I am the good shepherd, and know my sheep, and am known of mine.... And other sheep I have, which are not of this fold; them also I must bring; and they shall hear my voice; and there shall be one fold, and one shepherd."

A step sounded on the door-stone, and the very youth of whom Yusuf was thinking entered.

"Well, my Kedar," said the priest, "have you been enjoying the moon?"

"I have been to the Caaba," returned Kedar, with amused contempt in his voice, "yet I have neither swung by the kiswah nor drenched myself, like a rain-draggled hen, at Zem-Zem."

"And you have not kissed the Black Stone?"

"Neither have I kissed the stone. By my faith, if it has become blackened by the kiss of sinners, those poor simpletons caress it in vain! On the word of a Bedouin, it can hold no more, since it is as black as well may be already."

"The worship of our little church, then, suits you better?" The priest's tone scarcely concealed the anxiety with which he asked the question.

"You seem to worship in truth," returned the youth, solemnly. "You seem to find a comfort in your service which these poor blindlings seek in vain. Aye, Yusuf, in living among you I have noted the peaceful tenor of your lives, the rest and confidence which nothing seems to overthrow. You rejoice in life, yet you do not fear death! Could such a life be mine, I would gladly accept it. But I do not seem to be one of you."

The priest made no reply for a moment. Kedar did not know that he was praying for the fit word. Then his deep, tender tones broke the silence.

"You believe in Jesus, whom we love?"

"I believe that he was the Son of God; that he lived on the very hills to the north of us; that he died to reveal to us the greatness of his love. Yet—" He paused.

"'Whosoever believeth on the Son hath everlasting life,'" said Yusuf in a low tone.

"I know, but—" the youth hesitated again.

"But what, Kedar?" asked the priest.

"Jesus said to Nicodemus," returned the youth, "'Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of heaven.' Yusuf, this is what bothers me. I cannot understand this being born again."

"Let us call it, then, just 'beginning to love and trust Jesus,'" said Yusuf quietly.

Kedar almost started in his surprise. This aspect of the question had never appeared to him before. For a long time he sat, deep in thought, and Yusuf did not break in upon his meditations.

"Is that all?" he asked at length.

"That is all," returned Yusuf. "To trust him you must believe in him, love him,recognize his love, and leave everything to his guidance—everything in this physical life, in your spiritual life, and in the life to come. Then you will find peace. All your days will be spent in a loving round of happy labor, in which no work seems low or trifling—happy because love to Jesus begets the wish to do his will in every affair of life; and perfect love renders service, not a bondage, but the joyful spontaneity of freedom."

Kedar was again silent, then he said slowly:

"Yusuf, I begin to understand it all now; yet—is there something wrong still?—I have not the overpowering thrill of joy, the exuberance of feeling, the wondrous rapture of delight, which Amzi says he experienced, when, in the prison of Medina, he saw the light."

"Be not discouraged, my son," was the reply. "To different temperaments, in religion as in all else, the truth appeals in different ways. If you are trusting implicitly now in God's love, go on without doubt or fear. Most Christians—growing Christians—find that at different stages in their experience certain truths stand out more clearly, and, as the days go by, their difficulties clear away like mists before the morning sun."

"Yusuf, can I ever become such a Christian as you?" returned Kedar, in a half-awed tone at the thought.

"My son, look not on me," returned Yusuf, tenderly. "Strive only to perceive Jesus in all your life, to find him a reality to you—a companion, ever with you, walking by your side in the hot mart, riding by you in the desert, sitting by you in solitude,—then, where he is, evil cannot come. Your life will become all upright, conscientious, and loving, for his life will show through yours."

"And do temptations never come to those so blessed?"

"Ah, yes, Kedar, so long as life lasts 'our adversary, the devil, goeth about as a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.' Yet, think you that the God who 'stretcheth out the heavens as a curtain, who layeth the beams of his chambers in the waters, who maketh the clouds his chariot, who walketh upon the wings of the wind, who maketh his angels spirits, his ministers a naming fire'—think you that such an One is not able to stand between you and the tempter? Think you that he before whom devils cried out in fear, is not able to deliver you from the power of evil? Kedar, know that the Christian may even glory in his own weakness, for Jesus has said, 'My strength is made perfect in weakness;' and yet, while thus feeling his helplessness, the believer must ever be conscious of the unconquerable strength of Christ, and should rest serene in the knowledge that, clothed in the full armor of God, he is able to withstand all the darts of the wicked one."

Kedar said no more, but from that hour his humility, his patience, his gentleness, began to show forth as the outcome of the power of that working of the Spirit, whose fruit is "love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance."

"Death exempts not a man from being, but only presents an alteration."—Bacon.

When Kedar left Yusuf on that memorable night it was not to sleep. He ascended the stair and went out upon the hanging balcony, where he could look at the sky and the mountains, and ponder over the conversation of the evening. His was not the excitable, rapturous joy experienced by many, but a feeling of quiet contentment that settled upon his soul, and brought a calm smile to his features.

So he sat, when Manasseh burst upon him exclaiming, "What! my invalid able to stay up all the night as well as half the day! Come, listen to me! I have news!"

"Yes?"

"This evening a courier from Medina arrived in the city. He has with him a proclamation requiring all unsubmissive Jews to leave Mecca by to-morrow night at the latest."

"So soon!" exclaimed Kedar. "Where are they to go?"

"I have just talked with Yusuf, and with Amzi, who, poor fat man! is trying to get a little sleep in the fresh air of the housetop. They propose that we join my father's family in Palestine. Of course, I do not object!" added the youth, with a smile.

"Think you it will be safe for so small a band to face the dangers of the desert alone?" asked Kedar.

"A caravan leaves for Damascus to-morrow," replied Manasseh. "Fortunately we may obtain its protection."

"Good! Then I shall turn aside to the table-lands of Nejd and see my parents again," said Kedar.

"Think you your parents would join our band?"

Kedar shook his head. "Not likely. You see my father has lived all his days as a Bedouin. To be tied down to commerce he would consider a degradation. Neither would he become a shepherd, as watching sheep is a task held fit for women only in our tribe."

"And will you stay with them, Kedar?" asked Manasseh.

"I know not. We will see what the future has in store; but, at any rate," he added, half slyly, "your cousin Kedar will wear the Moslem turban no more."

The tone, rather than the words, told all. Manasseh took a quick, sharp look at the face smiling quietly in the moonlight, then he seized Kedar's hand warmly and whispered, "I am glad."

The following day was spent in packing and bidding adieux. Yusuf and Amzi passed the last hours among their poor, and, from the housetop, Kedar and Manasseh saw them returning in the evening, followed by a ragged crowd who clung to their gowns or wiped tearful eyes with tattered sleeves.

The sun went down as the caravan left the city, and on an eminence above, the little Jewish band stopped to take a last look at their old home—Mecca, with its low houses, its crooked streets, its mystic Caaba, and its weird mountain scenery.

All gray it lay beneath the shades of falling night; yet, as they looked, a wondrous change ensued. Gradually the landscape began to brighten; the houses shone forth; the aloe trees became green; the side of Abu Kubays sparkled with a seemingly self-emitted light; the rocks of the red mountain were dyed with a rosy glow; the Caaba grew more and more distinct, until even the folds of its kiswah were visible; and the sand of the narrow valley shone, beneath a saffron sky above, with a coppery radiance. It was the wondrous "after-glow" of the Orient,—a scene unique in its beauty, yet not often beheld in so sheltered a spot as Mecca.

The exiles, with tearful eyes, looked upon the fair landscape, which thus seemed to bid them an inanimate farewell. Then, as the glow paled and the rocks again took their sombre hue, and the city faded in redoubled shadow, the little band turned slowly away, and followed in the wake of the caravan now winding through the pass at some distance.

The Hebrew band consisted of twenty souls, among whom were Sherah, the daughter of Asru, and her mother, and the old white-haired man Benjamin, who had preached in the church and had become a father indeed to Asru's family.

Needless to speak of the long, tedious journey. Suffice it to say that, while the caravan wound through the north of El Hejaz, Kedar and Manasseh turned aside to the fresher plateaux of the Nejd, and the Bedouin once more found himself amid the scenes of his boyhood.

His spirits rose as the cool breeze from the plains struck him. The vision of sweet home—sweet to the roving Bedouin as to the pampered child of luxury—rose before him, and he urged his horse on with an ever-increasing anxiety.

From neighboring tribes they found outthe way to Musa's present encampment, then, spurring their horses on over a crisp plain, and beguiling the time with many a laugh and jest, they proceeded in the direction indicated, until, in a broad valley, the circle of tents lay before them.

"Come, Manasseh," said Kedar, "let us give them a surprise. Let us take a turn up yonder hill and swoop down upon them like a falcon."

"Agreed!" quoth Manasseh; and, with almost childish pleasure, they proceeded to make a short detour, and then galloped rapidly down from the hill-crest.

The encampment was strangely quiet.

"What is the matter, Manasseh?" asked Kedar. "There is scarcely anyone about."

A few dogs now set up a savage barking, and a man came out with a heavy whip and drove them, yelping, away.

"What is wrong, Tema?" asked Kedar, anxiously.

"Alas, my young master," said the man, "your father will soon be no more."

The youth sprang to the ground and entered the chief's tent. There lay the brave old Sheikh, dying, as he had scorned to die, in his bed, with pallid face and closed eyes, his gray hair damp and tangled, and his grizzled beard descending upon his brawny chest, from which the folds of his garments were drawn back. About him knelt his wife and children. Lois raised a tear-stained face to her son, then buried it again in her hands. Kedar threw himself beside the couch. The old man's lips moved.

"Aha!" cried he, "it is blood-revenge! Mizni, bold chief, I have you now! Yes, fly up to your eyrie among the rocks, if you can. I shall reach you there! Blood must be spilled. My honor! My honor!"

He was thinking of a fray of his youth in which he had paid the dues of blood for an only brother. Again, he seemed to be dashing on in the chase.

"On, on, Zebe!" he cried, in a hoarse whisper, "on, good steed! The quarry is ahead there! See the falcon swoop! Good steed, on!"

His voice was growing fainter, yet he continued to wave his arms feebly, and to move his lips in inaudible muttering. Once more the words became distinct:

"Here, Kedar, little man! Let father put you on his horse. There, boy, there! You will make a son for a Bedouin to be proud of!"

A tear rolled down Kedar's cheek as the dying man thus pictured a happy scene of his childhood. "Poor old father!" he murmured. "Manasseh, it is hard to see him die thus godlessly. Had I but come sooner!"

The old Sheikh's breath came shorter. His hand moved more feebly; he turned his head uneasily and opened his eyes.

He fixed them upon his son with a look of consciousness. His face brightened.

"Dear father," whispered the youth, and kissed his cheek.

A smile spread over the old man's face. His lips formed the words "My son!" His eyes closed, and the old Bedouin was dead.

The women broke into a low wail, and Kedar, with a tenderness not of the old time, strove to comfort his mother. The rites of anointing the body for burial were performed, and all through the evening the different members of the tribe gathered mournfully in to take a last look at the brave old leader.

When night fell Kedar went out; the atmosphere of the tent seemed to choke him. Manasseh stood silently by his side. The wail of the women sounded in a low burial-song from within, and groups of men, talking in whispers, gathered before the door.

Kedar stood with folded arms and head thrown back, looking upon the heavens. A star fell. Every Bedouin bowed his head, for the Arabs believe that when a star falls a soul ascends to paradise.

"Manasseh," said Kedar in a low tone, "I cannot let them bury him. They would do it with half-heathen rites."

"Can none among all these conduct Christian service?"

"Not one. My mother is the only one who knows aught of Christianity."

"Then," said Manasseh, "if you will let me, I shall offer prayers above his grave."

"No, Manasseh," said Kedar decidedly, "these people would resent it in a stranger. I shall do it; they will grant me the privilege as the right of a son."

"And rightly," exclaimed Manasseh, surprised and pleased at the staunchness with which his cousin took his new stand.

On the following day the funeral wound slowly up the defile to the place of the lonely grave. And there Kedar prayed simply and earnestly, a prayer in which the spiritual enlightenment of the sorrowful people about him was the chief theme. They did not understand all its meaning, but they were impressed by the solemnity and sincerity of the young Arab's manner.

Then the little heap of sand was raised, and four stone slabs were placed, according to Bedouin custom, upon the grave.

"Nothing can we call our own but death"—Shakespeare.

While Musa thus lay dying in the tents of Nejd, the cold hand of death was fast closing upon another in the land of Arabia. Day by day the germs of disease pulsed stronger and stronger through the veins of Mohammed. Monarch of Arabia, originator of a creed which was eventually to push itself throughout Egypt, India, Afghanistan, Persia, and even to the wild steppes of Siberia, he must now die. He viewed the end with firmness, and it has been a matter of controversy as to whether in these later days he still had the hallucination of being a prophet.

Too feeble to walk to the mosque, he lay, tended by his wives, in the tent of Ayesha, his favorite. Not many days before his death he asked that he might be carried to the mosque. Willing arms bore him thither, and placed him in the pulpit, from whence he could look down upon the city, and away to the palm-groves of Kuba. Then, turning his face towards the holy city, Mecca, he addressed the crowds of waiting people below.

"If there be any man," said he, "whom I have unjustly scourged, I submit my own back to the lash of retaliation. Have I aspersed the reputation of any Mussulman?—let him proclaim my faults in the face of the congregation. Has anyone been despoiled of his goods?—the little that I possess shall compensate the principal and the interest of the debt."

He then liberated his slaves, gave directions as to the order of his funeral, and appointed Abu Beker to supply his place in offering public prayer. This seemed to indicate that Abu Beker was to be his successor in office; and the long-tried friend accordingly became the first caliph of the Saracen empire.

After this the prophet was conveyed again to the house of Ayesha. The fever increased, and the pain in his head became so great that he more than once pressed his hands upon it exclaiming, "The poison of Khaïbar! The poison of Khaïbar!"

Once, perceiving the mother of Bashar, the soldier who had died of the poison in the fatal city, he said:

"O mother of Bashar, the cords of my heart are now breaking of the food which I ate with your son at Khaïbar!"

At another time, springing up in delirium, he called for pen and ink that he might write a new revelation; but owing to his weak state, his request was refused. In talking to those about him he said that Azraël, the Angel of Death, had not dared to take his soul until he had asked his permission.

A few nights before his death, he awoke from a troubled sleep, and, starting wildly from his couch, sprang up with unnatural strength from his bed.

"Come, Belus!" he cried to an attendant. "Come with me to the burial-place of El Bakia! The dead call to me from theirgraves, and I must go thither to pray for them."

Alone they passed into the night; through the long, silent streets they walked like phantoms; up the white road of Nedj they glided, until the few low tombs of the cemetery to the southeast of the city were in sight.

At the border of the bleak, lonely field, where the wind moaned among the tombs like the sighing of a weeping Rachel, Mohammed paused.

"Peace be with you, O people of El Bakia!" he cried. "Peace be with you, martyrs of El Bakia! One and all, peace be with you! We verily, if Allah please, are about to join you! O Allah, pardon us and them! And the mercy of God and his blessings be upon us all!"

Thus he prayed, stretching his hands towards the spot where his friends lay in their long sleep. His companion stood in awe behind him, shivering in superstitious terror, as the white tombs gleamed like moving apparitions through the gloom, and the night-owls hooted with a mournful cadence o'er the dreary waste.

When he had concluded, the prophet turned towards home. But the excitement of mind which had endowed him with almost supernatural strength now deserted him. His steps grew feeble and he was fain to lean upon Belus on his painful way back.

He grew rapidly worse. His wife Ayesha, and his daughter Fatima, wife of Ali, seldom left his bedside. When the last came, he raised his eyes to the ceiling and exclaimed, "O Allah, pardon my sins!" He then, with his own feeble hand, sprinkled his face with water, and soon afterwards, with his head on Ayesha's bosom, he departed, in the sixty-third year of his age, and the eleventh year of the Hejira, A.D. 632.

The frenzied people would not believe that he was dead. "He will arise, like Jesus," they said. But no returning breath quivered through the cold lips or animated the rigid form of him whom they passionately called to life; and not until Abu Beker assured them that he was really no more, saying, "Did he not himself assure us that he must experience the common fate of all? Did he not say in the Koran, 'Mohammed is no more than an apostle; the other apostles have already deceased before him; if he die therefore, or be slain, will ye turn back on your heels?'"—not until then did they disperse, with deep groans.

Mohammed was buried in the house in which he died, his grave being dug in the spot beneath his bed; but some years later a stone tomb was erected over the grave, and until the present day the place is held so sacred that it is at the risk of his life that anyone but a Mussulman dares enter.

"On these small cares of daughter, wife, or friend,The almost sacred joys of Home depend."

—Hannah More.

In the quiet valley in Palestine life had been dealing gently with Nathan and his family. The long, long absence of Manasseh was the one thing lacking for their perfect contentment.

"It is well," Nathan would say, yet his eyes would turn wistfully towards the South, as though he half-hoped to see the beloved face of his son appearing over the hill. The mother grew weary with waiting, yet she did not murmur, but whispered to her lonely heart, "Living or dead, it must be well." Only once she said, "Husband, he is surely dead," and Nathan replied:

"Let us still hope, wife, that we may yet see the goodness of the Lord in permitting us to behold his face."

So they hoped on, and worked on, amid their orange trees, their corn and vegetables, and their sheep browsing peacefully on the hills. And Mary tended the jasmine flowers and rose-bushes at the door, carrying water to them night and morning, that they mightlook at their prettiest when Manasseh came. Only one letter had reached them—a cheery, hopeful letter,—but it had been a long time on the way, and the events of which it told had taken place many weeks before it reached the Jordan valley. It had told them of Yusuf and Amzi, of the little church, of the sender's strange meeting with Kedar, and the news he had gathered of Lois. Then it had told of the war, and had closed with an affectionate farewell, in which the writer expressed his wish, rather than his expectation, of being able to make his way to the new home soon.

How long it seemed to Mary since that last word had come! And he was not home yet! She kept the precious manuscript in her bosom, and twenty times a day she looked down the long valley for the well-known form. One morning she sat by the river, idly plashing her bare feet in its golden ripples, and looking at the shadows on the little stones near the shore. About her gamboled a pet lamb, and above, a soft blue sky was flecked with fleecy white clouds. She twirled a sprig of blossoms in her hand, but her thoughts were far away in dear, hot, dusty, dreary Mecca.

"It is not so pleasant as this, though," she thought, "if Manasseh were only here."

Just then the tinkle of a camel-bell was heard,—a strange sound in that secluded spot. Mary looked up, and saw what seemed to be a great many people coming over the hill, camels bearing shugdufs, too, and pack-mules, heavily laden.

Trembling, she rushed into the house.

"Oh, mother, what means this? See the people! Manasseh would not bring all of those with him?"

The mother shaded her eyes with her hand, and looked forth, anxiously.

Nearer and nearer came the train. Who were they? Not Manasseh; Manasseh would not come so slowly. Can it be? Not Yusuf! Not Amzi! Yes, yes! O joy! It is they!—and many other familiar faces smile also from the train!

"Is Manasseh well?"

"Yes, Manasseh is well, and happy."

So questions were asked and answered in joyful confusion; and Nathan came in from the hills to bid the travelers welcome. Then the dusty, travel-stained tents were pitched once more, this time on a grassy slope by the rippling Jordan. A simple repast was spread, and the company dined in royal state.

With what surprise did Nathan and his household greet the wife of Asru and her sweet-faced daughter as sisters in Christ, and with what sympathy did they hear of Asru's sad death!

Then plans for the immediate settlement of the little party were made. Pasture-land in abundance was to be had; hence the majority of the new-comers would be speedily and comfortably provided with new homes. Amzi would take up his abode in some comfortable town-house not far distant, and Yusuf would remain with him for the present.

Mary and Sherah were friends at once, and ere evening fell, they sat, as girls will, in a cozy nook by the river-side forming plans for walks and talks during the long, bright, summer days.

Every cloud had drifted, for the time being, from the happy company; and, ere they retired to rest, all united with fervor in the words of the grand song:

"Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits: who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases; who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with loving kindness and tender mercies; who satisfieth thy mouth with good things; so that thy youth is renewed like the eagle's. The Lord executeth righteousness and judgment for all that are oppressed.... Bless the Lord, all his works, in all places of his dominion! Bless the Lord, O my soul!"

And later in that same evening, another group came to Nathan's house. The door was closed, for the evening was chill without. A knock was heard. Mary opened the door, and there was Manasseh himself, radiantly happy; and close behind him was another Manasseh with Bedouin eyes.

Mother, sister, and father pressed round the youth until he could scarcely move.

"There, there!" he said, shaking them off playfully, "my cousin Kedar will be jealous. Mother, this is Lois' son, and there is someone in the darkness here still."

The youth went out. Who was this that he assisted from the shugduf?—the living image of Lois in her girlhood days! Not Lois, but her daughter, a Bedouin maid, fresh as the breeze from her native hills. And can this be Lois—this sad-faced yet stately woman? It is, indeed, and the long-separated sisters are once more united. Kedar's brothers are there too, and one more family is added to the little community.

"God, the best maker of all marriages."—Shakespeare.

For a moment let us look more closely at the little district where the Jewish band found a home after all their wanderings.

They settled at a point where the Jordan River, that strange river flowing for its entire length through a depression one thousand feet below the level of the sea, is cut up by many a cataract; and the rushing noise of the water, carried from its mysterious source at the foot of Mount Hermon, fills the valley with a music not lost upon ears long accustomed to the dry wastes of Arabian deserts. To the north lie plains where cold blasts blow, and mountains whose crests gleam with never-failing snow; yet in the fair vales of Jordan the tempered breeze fans the air with the mildness of a never-ceasing-summer, and the soft alluvial soil is luxuriant with the rich growth of the tropics. To the west the rugged and picturesque mountains of Judea rise, and to the east, at a distance of some ten miles, lie the blue-tinted mountains of Moab, rich in associations of sacred history.

In this favored spot, shaded by waving groves and hidden by vines, was the house of Asru's wife; and at a little distance from it was a well, an old-fashioned well such as is seen only in the East, walled about with ancient and worn flag-stones, between which, at one side, the water trickled and ran over mossy stones to the river below.

A large tamarisk tree waved above it, and in its shade, with one knee resting on the flag-stone, her hands clasped behind her head, and her large eyes fixed upon the mountains of Moab beyond, stood Sherah, ere the sun rose, on one beautiful autumn morning.

An earthen water-pitcher, such as is carried by the girls of the Orient, was beside her, yet she moved not to execute her errand.

The sun arose behind the mountain; the amber sky became golden; the rosy pink clouds changed to radiant silver; the birds sang; the dew glittered; and the sun shone through the leaves of the trees with a flush of green-gold.

The beauty of the scene touched the girl. In a low, clear voice, spontaneous as the song of a bird, she sang: "For the Lord shall comfort Zion; he will comfort her waste places: and he will make her wilderness like Eden, and her desert like the garden of the Lord; joy and gladness shall be found therein, thanksgiving and the voice of melody."

The song brought comfort to her; for was she not soon to leave this fairy spot, this Aidenn, to return to the land of the Mussulman; not the land of—

"Deep myrrh thickets blowing roundThe stately cedar, tamarisks.Thick rosaries of scented thorn,Tall Orient shrubs, and obelisksGraven with emblems of the time,"

but to the bleak, treeless plains of Nejd, breezy with the warm breath of desert-swept winds, bounded by rolling mountains,and dotted by the black tents of those roving hordes of whom it has been said that "their hand is against every man, and every man's hand is against them,"—the fierce, cruel yet generous, impulsive, courteous tribes of the desert.

For Manasseh and Kedar were both going back to the desert tribes, braving the dangers of persecution, that they might exert an influence in christianizing the Bedouin tribes over whom the Moslems as yet had little power. Sherah was going back as Manasseh's wife, and this was her wedding-day. She was willing to go, yet she could not help feeling a little lonely on this last morning in her mother's home.

Presently the call "Sherah! Sherah!" came through the olive groves, and the old nurse hobbled out. The woman was a thorough type of an aged Arab, lean, wrinkled, hook-nosed, with skin like shrunken leather, and a voice like a raven. Yet Sherah knew her goodness of heart, and loved her dearly. She was taking the old woman back with her, for, oddly enough, Zama had never felt at home in the new land, and often craved that her bones might be buried in the old soil.

"Why disturb me, Zama?" said the young woman kindly. "See you not that I am bidding farewell to this dear valley?"

"Aye, aye, child," muttered the old nurse, "but we must put the wedding-gown upon you, and twine jasmine in your hair." She stroked the glossy masses fondly. "Ah, to-morrow it must be braided in the plaits of the matron, and the coins will be placed about my precious one's neck; yet it seems only yesterday that she was a toddling baby at my feet."

The two women, the one tall and lithe as a willow, the other bent and shrunken, took their way to the house. Mary was already there, and assisted in adorning the bride.

The guests arrived, and the simple ceremony was soon over; then the company sat down to the wedding feast. Lois and her sister talked in low tones to the mother of Sherah, who grieved a little at the separation from her daughter. Happy jests and laughter passed about among the young people. Amzi went, with beaming face, from group to group; and Yusuf looked quietly on.

In the midst of the entertainment some one came to the door.

"It is a peddler!" cried one. "Let us see what he has—perhaps another gift for our fair bride."

The young people gathered about the glittering trinkets. Manasseh came near, and, with a merry twinkle in his eyes, placed his hand on the man's shoulder. The peddler looked up, and his face blanched with fear.

It was the little Jew, who, having escaped like an eel from Manasseh's care after the Battle of Ohod, and having become thoroughly frightened at the idea of remaining longer in a war-ridden district, had disappeared like magic from the plains of Arabia, and had become once more the insignificant Jewish peddler in the more secure provinces to the north.

"Do not be frightened," laughed Manasseh. "We no longer take prisoners of war; yet, for the sake of old acquaintance, I claim you to partake of our feast."

The little man was half-dragged to the table and given a place by Nathan, who spoke kindly to him. Yet he did not feel at ease. The stolen cup seemed to point an accusing finger at him; and he ate little, and talked less.

Presently he caught a glimpse of Yusuf. The sight of the man whom he had so nearly delivered to death was too much for him. His little eyes darted about as if suspicious of some design upon his freedom. He could not understand the magnanimity of these people, and, deeming discretion the better part of valor, he sprang from the table, shouldered his pack, and was off, to be seen no more.

"Sondry folk, by aventure y-falle in felaweschipe."—Chaucer.

And now, our tale draws to a close, and time permits but a parting glance at those who have been so long a goodly company of friends.

Amzi has, in his descent to old age, developed a wonderful activity of mind and body. He has become one of the most influential members of the little town in which he has taken up his abode. Realizing as never before the duty which man owes to man, and fully awakened at last to the fact that our talents are given us to be exercised fully, he no longer dreams away time in the Arab Kaif; but, from morning to night, his plump figure and good-natured old face are seen, up and down, in the mart, in the council-chamber, in the church, wherever he can lend a helping hand. He has even assumed the role of schoolmaster, and upon the earthen floor of an unused hall he gathers day by day a troop of little ones, over whom he bends patiently as they cling to his gown for sympathy in their small trials, or as they trace upon their wax tablets, with little, uncertain hands and in almost illegible characters, the words of a copy, or text.

"Aye," he says, "who knows what these little ones may some day become? They are as impressionable as the wax upon which they write. Heaven grant that the impression made upon them may be mighty for good!"

Kedar has married a Bedouin maid, and is happy in his free life in the old land. Naught but the desert could satisfy him; he would stagnate in the calm life which those in the Jordan valley are finding so pleasant.

As yet he and Manasseh have not been molested in their work by the Moslems; and in their remote mountain recesses they are persistently fighting against heathendom, and are leading many to live better and nobler lives.

And Yusuf? He is in his home-land again. Once more he stands upon the highest point of the Guebre temple. The priests have not refused him admittance, for no one has recognized in this harmless old man the once Guebre Yusuf.

Ah, it is heathen Persia still! The fires flicker upon the altar, and the idolatrous chants arise on the air. Yusuf covers his face with his mantle and weeps. He has but a few years of strength before him, but he will spend them in trying to bring the Gospel of love to these poor, blind people.

He grieves for his benighted country; but when the moon slowly rises, shedding her soft rays over the old scene, the mountains, the valleys below, all calm, peaceful, radiant, he is comforted. He thinks of Him who "created the lesser orb to rule the night," and a great joy fills his heart that he has been led to a recognition of Him, and that he has been enabled to lead others to Him.

His face glows with serene happiness and hope. He raises his eyes to the calm, deep heavens, and says:

"O Father, I thank thee that 'mine eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts,' and his dear Son! I thank thee that thou hast led me to see Truth! O God, thou hast taught me from my youth, and hitherto have I declared thy wondrous works! Now also when I am old and gray-headed, O God, forsake me not until I have showed thy strength unto this generation, and thy power to every one that is to come! And now, Father, 'what wait I for? My hope is in thee,' the great God, the ever-loving Father, now and for evermore. Amen and amen."

And there will we leave him.

"May he liveLonger than I have time to tell his years!Ever beloved and loving, may his rule be!And when old Time shall lead him to his end,Goodness and he fill up one monument!"

—Shakespeare.

THE END.

[1]The month of Ramadhan was held as holy prior to Mohammed's time; its sanctity was but confirmed by him.

[2]Medina at this time bore the name of Yathrib, but in this volume we shall give it the later and better-known name of "Medina," derived from the earlier "Mahdinah."

[3]The Moslemsnowassert that the sacred fire went out of itself at the birth of Mohammed.

[4]A fourth, the "Darb-el-Sharki," or Eastern Road, has since been built by order of the wife of the famous Haroun al Raschid.

[5]Joseph Pitts, A.D. 1680, says: "Mecca is surrounded for several miles with many thousands of little hills which are very near to one another. They are all stony-rock, and blackish, and pretty near of a bigness, appearing at a distance like cocks of hay, but all pointing towards Mecca."

[6]Burton says the black stone is volcanic, but is thought by some to be a meteorite or aërolite. Burckhardt thought it composed of lava. Of its appearance Ali Bey says: "It is a block of volcanic basalt, whose circumference is sprinkled with little crystals, with rhombs of tile-red feldspath on a dark background like velvet or charcoal."

[7]By the latest statistics the number of Mohammedans now scattered throughout Asia, Africa, and the south-eastern part of Europe amounts to some 176,834,372.

[8]Moslems assert that upon this night Mohammed was carried through the seven heavens of which El Islam tells.

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