Chapter 29

KEDAR RETURNS TO HIS HOME.

"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 out the 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.