Chapter 25

MANASSEH AND KEDAR AT MECCA.

"Home, sweet home."

The flame of a smoky oil-dip dimly lighted a spacious room in the house of Amzi. At the low table sat Yusuf and his friend with a chart before them, anxiously following, with eye and finger, the course of Mohammed's northern exploits.

The thoughts of both were with Manasseh. A knock sounded at the bolted door. Yusuf opened it, and there, like a cameo in the setting of darkness, was the youth himself.

"Manasseh, my son!" cried both in astonishment.

He stepped in, now laughing, now brushing tears from his eyes. "There!" he said, freeing himself from their embraces, "I have one more surprise. I come like a grandee, bearing my company in a litter. Help me bring him in."

They stepped out, and Manasseh's second face, that of Kedar, peered from the curtains of the shugduf. None the less warm was the greeting extended to the Moslem, whose weak and trembling frame was an instant call upon their sympathy.

"Now," said Manasseh, piling up a heap of cushions, in his impetuous way, "get us some supper, will you not? I can eat my own share, and half of Kedar's. Like the birds, he takes but a peck at a time."

Supper was ordered, and soon attendants entered bearing platters, until the copper table was burdened with the most tempting dishes of Mecca--roast of spiced lamb, slices of juicy melon and cucumber, pyramids of rice, pomegranates, grapes of Tayf, sweetmeats, fragrant draughts of coffee.

Kedar watched with a languid smile. The peace of this quiet home life affected him almost to tears. Strange had been his emotions when he awoke to consciousness in the shugduf, alone with Manasseh, in the wilderness--feelings first of indignation, then of gratitude, then of admiration for Manasseh, in whom he now discovered the leader of the Jewish horse. And on the way this admiration had ripened into love for the unselfish Jewish youth.

The weariness of the long journey began to tell upon him now, and he was glad that he was among friends. He could eat but little, and was content to listen to Manasseh's bright talk, and to watch him as, with flashing eye and eloquent gesture, he fought over again the Battle of Khaïbar, or when, with hushed tone and tearful eye, he told of the death of Asru, and his lonely burial.

"I must seek his widow and his children," said he. "This is all I have brought them;" and he drew the tangled, blood-stained lock of hair from his bosom.

Silence fell on the little group as they looked upon it, then Yusuf's tones, falling like the low, deep cadence of a chant, repeated the words:

"And there shall be no more curse, but the throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it; and his servants shall serve him. And they shall see his face; and his name shall be in their foreheads. And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light; and they shall reign forever and forever."

"Amen!" responded Amzi, fervently. And Manasseh looked out of the window towards the bright heavens above Abu Kubays, imagining that he could see Asru, clad in shining apparel, with a happy smile on his lips, and the courageous eyes of old looking forth with a new love-light from his radiant countenance.

"Do you know his family?" he asked.

"Ah, yes; they are now regular attendants at the Christian church. They have destroyed all their household gods."

"What!" exclaimed Manasseh, "is this true! How I wish Asru had known it! What joy it would have given him!"

Amzi smiled. "Dare you think, Manasseh, that he does not know it long ere this,--that he did not know it even at the breach of Khaïbar? I like to think that our Asru now has a spiritual body wholly independent of time or space, capable of transporting itself whenever and wherever the mind dictates."

"We cannot know these things as they are, in this time," remarked Yusuf. "But the day is not very far distant now, Amzi, when you and I shall explore these mysteries for ourselves."

So the talk went on. Kedar listened with interest. He thought it a curious conversation, and felt so strangely out of place that it seemed as though he were dreaming, and listening to the talk of genii.

Next morning he was in a decided fever. Then came long days of pain and nights of delirium, in which Manasseh and his two friends hovered like ministering spirits about the youth, whose wounds had healed only to give place to disease far more deadly. In those terrible nights of burning heat his parched tongue swelled so that he could scarcely swallow; he tossed in agony, now fancying himself chained to a rock unable to move, while the prophet urged him on to the heights above where the battle was raging; now imagining himself fastened near a burning furnace whose flames were fed by the bodies of those whom he had slain. He would cry out in terror, and beads of perspiration would start upon his forehead. He lived the whole war over again, and his only rest was at times when, partially conscious, he felt kindly hands placing cool bandages on his burning head, or gently fanning his face.

The time at last came when he sank into a heavy sleep, and awoke calling "Mother."

It was Manasseh who came, almost startled by the naturalness of the tone.

"I have been very ill, Manasseh?"

"Very."

"Long?"

"For weeks. But you must not talk. You will soon be well now."

The invalid closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to think. Presently he opened them.

"Manasseh, if I had died, would I have seen Asru?"

Manasseh was embarrassed. "I--I cannot say," he stammered. "I do not know you well enough to be sure."

"You do not think I should. I do not think so either," he returned decidedly, and closed his eyes again.

In a few days he was able to talk.

"Manasseh, did I hear Yusuf praying for me once when I was ill?"

"He prayed for you every day,--not only that you might be spared to us, but that you might come to know Jesus, and to reject Mohammed."

"I do not think that I ever accepted him--that is, in a religious sense," he returned.

Manasseh's eyes opened wide in astonishment. "Then why did you follow him?" he asked.

"Because, I suppose, his successes dazzled me. It seemed a grand thing to be a hero in the war--to ride, and charge, and drive all before me. Aye, Manasseh, it is after the war that the scales fall from one's eyes."

"How could you, then, follow one whom you did not accept, and must, therefore, have deemed an impostor?"

"I tell you, Manasseh, I gave little heed to matters of religion. For the first time, during the last few days, I have thought of a religious life, or of a hereafter, as I lay here feeling that but for you and your friends, I should even now be in the unknown land beyond the grave."

Manasseh talked long and earnestly to the now convalescent youth. Yusuf and Amzi too talked gently to him when he seemed inclined to hear, but, in his present weak state, they deemed that the consciousness of living in a godly house would appeal more strongly than words of theirs. The weeks passed on, yet he gave no indication that their hopes were being realized. Once indeed he said:

"Manasseh, would that I had had a godly training such as yours!"

"Did your mother not tell you of these things?"

Kedar shook his head. "My poor mother drifted away from her early training in our half-heathen Bedouin atmosphere," he said. "The Bedouins know little of Christ. They have traditions of the creation, of the deluge, and such old-time stories; in all else they are almost heathen. When I am well, Manasseh, we will go to them--to my father--and you will tell them, Manasseh?"

Manasseh nodded a smiling assent.

It was with no little trepidation that Yusuf and Amzi watched for some sign of spiritual growth in the young Bedouin. As the days wore on, and he was able to get about, though still weak, he was willing to attend the Christian meetings; but he sat in silence, and persisted in wearing the garb of a Moslem. The friends did not understand his attitude. They did not recognize the sort of petulant shamefacedness that hindered him from coming forth boldly in defence of principles which he fully endorsed in his secret heart, and made him fear to cut himself loose from the side on which he had taken so bold a stand, lest the epithet of "turncoat," be fixed upon him. Kedar had not yet been touched by that "live coal" which alone can set man in touch with God, and free him from all human restrictions. But though he said little, he was thinking deeply. He was not indifferent; and there is ever great room for hope where there is not indifference.

And while the little Meccan household was thus engrossed in its own circle, momentous events were happening without the capital.