"A man might be what you call an atheist in London, Signor Briarfield," he said, "with the grey, leaden sky, its long lines of streets, and its myriads of men and women crawling over each other like ants on an ant-hill; but in the East, amidst the great silences—no, a man must believe in God there. The sun by day, and the moon and stars by night, with the great silence brooding over him—great God, yes!"
Briarfield was struck dumb by the quiet intensity of his words.
"This is a man who has suffered," he thought; but he said aloud, after an awkward silence, "You are a Mohammedan, I suppose, signore?"
"I," replied the other, "I am nothing, signore, and I am everything—Christian, Mohammedan, Brahmin, what you will. I believe in them all, because all postulate a devil."
"You believe in a devil, then?"
"Have I not lived in London? Ay, and in Morocco also. But above all, I have lived!"
Had some men said this, there would be something theatrical, melodramatic in his words, but the stranger spoke so quietly that the others never thought of it.
"But here I rest," he went on, "here is quietness, peace. A good lady has been moved to build a Home of Rest for tired men, and I am tired. You have not told me about this lady, Mr. Briarfield. She is a great philanthropist, I suppose?"
"She is very kind to the poor," replied the young squire.
"And I am poor; I am in her Home of Rest. It is an experience. The place is like heaven after London: therefore I owe a debt of gratitude to my benefactress. Yes, and when I see her I will tell her so. But tell me, why did she build this place?"