emaciated figure
appeared under the arched aperture and a sonorous voice cried out in
Arabic, "Peace be with you."

Michael, who knew that this Moslem greeting is reserved for all true
believers, for members of the Islamic brotherhood, that it is rarely,
if ever, offered to Christians, thought that the old man had not seen
him, that his gracious salutation was for one of his own faith. He did
not venture to return it in the prescribed Moslem fashion, "On you be
peace and the mercy of God and His Blessing." He merely waited for a
few moments, until the bent figure stood upright, and the dark eyes in
the thin face met his own.

"It is you, O my son. I have long looked for you."

Michael's heart warmed with happiness. Then the Moslem greeting had
been for him. He felt that peace was with him.

"I seek your counsel, O my father."

"May Allah counsel me and bring you prosperity." A lean arm, a mere
bone covered with a sun-tanned skin, reached for a key which was
hanging from a nail in the wall. Without speaking, he unlocked the
gate. Michael noticed the fleshlessness of the fingers and wrist.

"Enter, my son, if it so please you to honour my humble abode."

Michael entered and waited in silence, until the old African had slowly
and carefully locked the door again.

"To you, O my son, my dwelling-place seems empty and bare; to me it is
filled with the treasures of paradise, the sweet fragrance of white
jasmine."

"I understand," Michael said.

"My son," the old man said, "it is because you understand that I am
here, in this little room, glorified by the presence of Allah, made
beautiful by His exceeding great beauty. I see many flowers; I can
hear the singing of birds and the running of cool waters."

"Your home is an abode of peace. Its beauty is the perfection of
understanding. Your jasmine is the fragrance of love."

"Our thoughts, my son, are our real riches. In no place are we far
from Allah. What of your work--has it prospered?"

This was, Michael knew, the usual Moslem greeting to a friend; it did
not refer to any particular form of work or to his worldly affairs.

"All is well, O my father."

"I have no bodily refreshment to offer you, my son." He smiled a
queer, grim smile; it stretched the hard skin of his face, which
mid-African suns had tanned.

"I need no material food, O my father," Michael said, "I have eaten
well and I know your frugal life. I seek better food."

"That is