“Of what flavor is he, Ziha?”
“Surely, I can not imagine, sister Miriamne! His countenance is that of a Persian Jew; his turban is Turkish; his tunic Christian. But his bearing is that of a prince, though all his belongings, except his gorgeously dressed camel, are those of a beggar!”
“I’ll see him, Ziha; bid him enter,” exclaimed Miriamne.
“That I did; but he says his haste is too great and his limbs too stiff for dismounting. In truth, his brow, bleached to the bone, tells of weighty years.”
“Let’s go to him,” said the chaplain.
The missioners going forth, at the easterly side of their temple, were confronted by a majestic figure, mounted on a splendidly caparisoned white camel, evidently a borrowed one.
“Ullah makum,” “God be with you,” said the man on the camel with great courtliness and dignity, at the same time extending to the chaplain a parchment roll.
“This for me?” questioned the latter.
“For thee,” replied the rider, bowing as before, but looking past the question with fixed, though reverent, gaze at Miriamne.