Abu Bekr, now threescore years of age, was somewhat short in stature, of a spare frame, rounded back, and stooping gait. His face was thin, complexion smooth and fair, nose aquiline and sharp, with other features delicate; the forehead high; the eyes deep-seated and far apart; the veins well marked. His scanty hair and beard, now for many years white, was dyed red. The countenance was still in old age handsome; and the expression mild, but wise and resolute. To him faith in the Prophet had become a second nature, and, now that his Master was gone, the disciple lived but to fulfil his will. It was this that nerved a disposition naturally soft and yielding, and made Abu Bekr, the True,[5] of all the followers of Mahomet, the firmest and most resolute.
Omar.
Omar, fifteen years younger, differed both in frame and temperament. Broad-shouldered and tall, he towered above the crowd. Though somewhat dark in complexion, the face was fresh and ruddy. He was now bald; and his beard was dyed like his friend’s. His stride was long, and his presence commanding. Naturally hasty and passionate, he would twist his moustache when angry and draw it downwards to his mouth. But time had mellowed temper; and, beneath an imperious manner, he was bland and courteous. Their attachment to Mahomet had, on these two friends, an effect exactly opposite. That which braced the soft nature of Abu Bekr served to abate the vehemence of Omar. Both stood in a like relation to the Prophet, each having given a daughter to him in marriage; Haphsa, Omar’s daughter, was one of Mahomet’s favourite wives; but Ayesha, the child of Abu Bekr, was queen in his affections to the end.
Abu Obeida.
On these two men at this moment hung the future of Islam. The third, who now accompanied them, Abu Obeida, was between them in age. He was thin, tall, and sinewy; bald, and with little beard. Mild, unassuming, and unwarlike, he was yet destined to take a leading part in the conquest of Syria.
Abu Bekr and Omar in the Great Mosque.
It was the afternoon of the day on which, but an hour or two before, Mahomet had breathed his last. The event had come unexpectedly at the end. Abu Bekr, thinking the Prophet better, had shortly before retired to his house in the suburbs of the city. Called back in haste, he entered Ayesha’s chamber, and kissed the face of his departed friend, saying:—
Men of Medîna would elect a chief of their own.
‘Sweet wert thou in life; and sweet thou art in death.’ The mosque was filled with a crowd excited by the voice of Omar, who wildly proclaimed that the Prophet was not dead, but in a trance; and that, like Moses, he would surely return to them again. Abu Bekr, issuing from the chamber (which opened directly from the court of the mosque), put his friend aside with these memorable words:—Whoso worshippeth Mahomet, let him know that Mahomet is dead indeed; but whoso worshippeth God, let him know that God liveth and dieth not. He added passages from the Corân, in which the Prophet had said that he would die; and Omar, hearing them as if he had never heard them before, was speechless. The multitude quieted down before the solemn words of Abu Bekr. But just then a messenger hurried up with the report, that the citizens of Medîna—the Ansâr, had assembled to choose for themselves a chief. The moment was critical. The unity of the faith was at stake. A divided power would fall to pieces, and all might be lost. The mantle of the Prophet must fall upon one successor, and on one alone. The sovereignty of Islam demanded an undivided Caliphate; and Arabia would acknowledge no master but from amongst the Coreish. The die must be cast, and at once.