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.