But Michael had already reached him; the fleshless figure lay bathed in the dying light of the afterglow. Hanging round his neck, a neck which looked like the neck of the dried mummy in Freddy's wonderful tomb, there were many strings of cheap beads, and suspended from a bright green cord—the Prophet's green—was one white cowrie shell. Half covered by his garment of many colours, and jealously enclosed in a small black cloth bag, was the most precious article of his scanty possessions. Michael knew that this pouch contained nothing less valuable than a few grains of sand from the Prophet's tomb at Mecca.
At Michael's approach the fanatic raised himself and recited in half-delirious tones the Fat'hah, or the opening chapter of the Koran:
"In the Name of God, the Merciful, the Gracious. Praise be unto God, the Lord of the worlds, the Merciful, the Gracious, the Ruler of the day of judgment. Thee do we worship, and of Thee do we beg assistance. Direct us in the right way, in the way of those to whom Thou hast been gracious, upon whom there is no wrath, and who have not erred."
When the sura was finished the man fell back; his strength failed him. Michael knelt down beside him in the desert. He raised his head; his wild eyes and emaciated face touched his heart. He knew something of the zeal of these religious Moslems, these desert sons of Allah. This man had obviously wasted himself to a skeleton. Truly, his reasoning powers were in heaven; his religious ecstasies had well-nigh bereft him of his senses.
Michael asked him if he was ill or if he was only faint from want of food. The saint did not know; physical exhaustion overpowered him. At intervals he called loudly upon the name of Allah, in almost the same phraseology as the ancient Egyptians called upon Amon-Ra, the Lord of all worlds, whose seat was in the heavens. In the unchanging East, expressions never die. Akhnaton taught his disciples to pray to "Our Father, which art in Heaven."
As Michael listened to his appeals to Allah, he felt totally at a loss to know what to do for the material benefit of the zealot. He was afraid that he would die from exhaustion. He was relieved when Abdul and the bearers came to his assistance. Abdul soon persuaded the man to drink some of the water which he had brought in a cup. As he did so, he noticed with satisfaction that the saint's head was resting on Michael's arm, that his master was totally self-forgetful in his act of charity. Christian though he was, he was sincerely obeying the teaching of the Prophet Jesus, the one sinless Prophet of Islam, the Prophet Who, next to Mohammed, is best beloved of the faithful. Mohammed considered Jesus sinless; to his own unrighteousness he often alluded. In this act of grace, at least, the Effendi had not failed Him.
When Michael offered the man another cooling drink, he swallowed it eagerly. It was like the waters of paradise to his parched throat. His flaming eyes tried to express his gratitude to his deliverer. Who was this heretic whose fingers had the gift of healing, from whose heart flowed the divine waters of charity?
Michael understood. Inspired by the love in his heart for all suffering humanity, with something akin to the graceful imagery of words which comes naturally to the humblest native's lips, he spoke to the man in a suitable manner. Rendered into English it would sound absurd.
The servants appeared with some food which was sustaining and appetizing, but the effort necessary for swallowing anything solid proved too much for the exhausted pilgrim.
"Bring him to the camp, Abdul," Michael said. "I will give him some brandy. As a medicine it is not forbidden?"