“Do' know, be sure. Once there was a stranger, I reckon him travel without any dragoman, come to the tent of the prophet Abraham, and ask for food and lodging; he was a kind of infidel, not believe in God, not to believe in anything but a bit of stone. And Abraham was very angry, and sent him away without any dinner. Then the Lord, when he saw it, scolded Abraham.
“'But,' says Abraham, 'the man is an infidel, and does not believe in Thee.'
“'Well,' the Lord he answer to Abraham, 'he has lived in my world all his life, and I have suffered him, and taken care of him, and prospered him, and borne his infidelity; and you could not give him a dinner, or shelter for one night in your house!
“Then Abraham ran after the infidel, and called him back, and told him all that the Lord he say. And the infidel when he heard it, answer, 'If the Lord says that, I believe in Him; and I believe that you are a prophet.'.rdquo;
“And do you think, Abd-el-Atti, that men have been more tolerant, the Friends of Mohammed, for instance, since then?”
“Men pretty nearly always the same; I see 'em all 'bout alike. I read in our books a little, what you call 'em?—yes, anecdote, how a Moslem 'ulama, and a Christian priest, and a Jewish rabbi, were in a place together, and had some conversation, and they agreed to tell what each would like best to happen.
“The priest he began:—'I should like,' says he, 'as many Moslems to die as there are animals sacrificed by them on the day of sacrifice.'
“'And I,' says the 'ulama, 'would like to see put out of the way so many Christians as they eat eggs on Easter.'
“Now it is your turn, says they both to the rabbi:—'Well, I should like you both to have your wishes.' I think the Jew have the best of it. Not so?”
The night is soft and still, and envelopes Philæ in a summer warmth. The stars crowd the blue-black sky with scintillant points, obtrusive and blazing in startling nearness; they are all repeated in the darker blue of the smooth river, where lie also, perfectly outlined, the heavy shadows of the granite masses. Upon the silence suddenly breaks the notes of a cornet, from a dahabeëh moored above us, in pulsations, however, rather to emphasize than to break the hush of the night.