“But who are you?” again questions the chaplain.
“God knows,” was the sententious reply of the rider, his eyes still turning, not with curiosity, but with a deferential and affectionate interest, toward the chaplain’s wife.
“What message here, my father?” questioned again Cornelius, in the language of Galilee.
The aged man’s dark face lightened at the words, and turning his reverent gaze from Miriamne toward the questioner, he slowly responded:
“The ‘Angels of the Mount’ are not too proud to call a poor camel driver ‘my father?’ Age has respect here! I might have known this: Nourahmal is full of the odors of this new Bethany!”
“And do you come from Nourahmal?” quickly interrogated Miriamne.
“Nourahmal and I are one, by the voice of God spoken through the holy Hospitaler, who is alluring me daily from the secret faiths of my fathers to learn the prayers that Nourahmal learns here.”
“I see,” continued Miriamne; “I speak with Nourahmal’s consort. Pray dismount for refreshment. We bid you every welcome, Mahmood.”
“Mahmood! called by such fine people by my proper name; not ‘dog’ or ‘here you,’ or ‘old camel goad!’ Wonderful!”
“Will Nourahmal’s spouse dismount?”