The Days of Mohammed | Page 8

flocks of sheep off in noisy confusion, and urging the
herds of dromedaries on with their short, hooked sticks. It was indeed a
babel, in which Yusuf had no part; and he once more seized the
opportunity of looking at the precious parchment To his astonishment,
he perceived that it was addressed to "Mohammed, son of Abdallah,
son of Abdal Motalleb, Mecca," with the subscription, "From Sergius
the Monk, Bosra."
Here then, Yusuf had, in perfect innocence, been entrapped into reading
a communication addressed to some one else, and he smiled
sarcastically as he thought of the inquisitiveness of the little Jew who
had taken the liberty of "just peeping in."
It remained, now, for Yusuf to find the Jew and to put him again in
possession of his charge. He searched for him through the motley
crowd, but in vain; then, recollecting that the peddler's bundle had been
left behind, he sought Musa, to see if he had heard anything of the little

busybody.
Musa laughed heartily. "Remember you not that I said his trumpery
would be gone in the morning? I was no false prophet. The man is like
a weasel. When all sleep he finds his way in and helps himself to what
he will: when all wake, no Jew is to be seen; trumpery and all have
gone, no one knows whither."
So the priest found himself responsible for the delivery of the
manuscript to this Mohammed, of whom he had never hitherto heard;
and, knowing the contents, he was none the less ready to carry out the
trust, hoping to find in Mohammed some one who could tell him more
of the same wondrous story. He therefore placed the parchment very
carefully within the folds of his garment, bade farewell to Musa and his
household, and prepared to leave with the caravan, which had halted
but a short time on account of the remarkable coolness of the day.
"Peace be with you!" said the Sheikh; "and if you ever need a friend,
may it be Musa's lot to stand in good stead to you. I bid you good speed
on your journey. We have no fears for your safety now, besides the
safety of numbers, the holy month of Ramadhan[1] begins to-day, and
even the wildest of the Bedouin robbers usually refrain from taking life
in the holy months. Again, Peace be with you! And remember that the
Bedouin can be a friend."
Yusuf embraced the chieftain with gratitude, and took his place in the
train, which was already moving slowly down the wady.
As it often happens that in the most numerous concourse of people one
feels most lonely, so it was now with Yusuf. There seemed none with
whom he cared to speak. Most of the people were self-satisfied traders
busied with the care of the merchandise which they were taking down
to dispose of at the great fair carried on during the Ramadhan. A few
were Arabs of the Hejaz, short and well-knit, wearing loose garments
of blue, drawn back at the arms enough to show the muscles standing
out like whip-cords. Some were smoking short chibouques, with stems
of wood and bowls of soft steatite colored a yellowish red. As they rode
they used no stirrups, but crossed their legs before and beneath the

pommel of the saddle; while, as the sun shone more hotly, they bent
their heads and drew their kufiyahs far over their brows. Many poor
and somewhat fanatical pilgrims were interspersed among the crowd,
and here and there a dervish, with his large, bag-sleeved robe of brown
wool--the Zaabut, worn alike by dervish and peasant--held his way
undisturbed.
Yusuf soon ceased to pay any attention to his surroundings, and sat,
buried in his own thoughts, until a voice, pleasant and like the ripple of
a brook, aroused him.
"What thoughts better than the thoughts of a Persian? None. Friend,
think you not so?"
The words were spoken in the Persian dialect, and the priest looked up
in surprise, to see a ruddy-faced man smiling down upon him from the
back of a tall, white Syrian camel. He wore the jubbeh, or cloak, the
badge of the learned in the Orient; his beard was turning slightly gray,
and his eyes were keen and twinkling.
"One question mayhap demands another," returned Yusuf. "How knew
you that I am a Persian? I no longer wear Persian garb."
"What! Ask an Arab such a question as that!" said the other, smiling.
"Know you not, Persian, that we of the desert lands are accustomed to
trace by a mark in the sand, the breaking of a camel-thorn, things as
difficult? The stamp of one's country cannot be thrown off with one's
clothes. Nay, more; you have been noted as one learned among the
Persians."