* * * * * *
In the morning, when he awoke, it was with a new lightness of spirit and refreshed vitality. A sense of freedom exalted him, a subconscious freedom, which had been absent for some days. The glory of the desert called to him. He felt spiritually and physically vitalized.
Even the recollection of the nature of the saint's illness did not damp his spirits. He would recover with careful nursing, and when he was better they would go on their way rejoicing. The Promised Land seemed nearer.
It was scarcely time for his early cup of tea, yet he saw Abdul bringing it. Perhaps the joy of life had waked him, too, perhaps he also was eager to get up and greet the morn. What a wonderful morning it was! All pure, cool, clear sunlight. Michael's heart, a throbbing organ of praise, sent forth a paean to the pagan skies.
"Is the Effendi awake? May his servant enter?"
"Yes, Abdul, come in."
Abdul entered with the noiseless movements of his race. As he stood by his master's bed, Michael saw that the unemotional native was attempting to hide his anger. Something had greatly upset him.
"What is it, Abdul? Has anyone been unkind to the saint?"
"Aiwah, Effendi, it is not that." Abdul spoke lengthily and in the correct Arabic fashion. He must not approach the subject too quickly.
"Tell me," Michael said. "What troubles you, Abdul?"