Mecca by
to-morrow night at the latest."

"So soon!" exclaimed Kedar. "Where are they to go?"

"I have just talked with Yusuf, and with Amzi, who, poor fat man! is
trying to get a little sleep in the fresh air of the housetop. They
propose that we join my father's family in Palestine. Of course, I do
not object!" added the youth, with a smile.

"Think you it will be safe for so small a band to face the dangers of
the desert alone?" asked Kedar.

"A caravan leaves for Damascus to-morrow," replied Manasseh.
"Fortunately we may obtain its protection."

"Good! Then I shall turn aside to the table-lands of Nejd and see my
parents again," said Kedar.

"Think you your parents would join our band?"

Kedar shook his head. "Not likely. You see my father has lived all his
days as a Bedouin. To be tied down to commerce he would consider a
degradation. Neither would he become a shepherd, as watching sheep is a
task held fit for women only in our tribe."

"And will you stay with them, Kedar?" asked Manasseh.

"I know not. We will see what the future has in store; but, at any
rate," he added, half slyly, "your cousin Kedar will wear the Moslem
turban no more."

The tone, rather than the words, told all. Manasseh took a quick, sharp
look at the face smiling quietly in the moonlight, then he seized
Kedar's hand warmly and whispered, "I am glad."

The following day was spent in packing and bidding adieux. Yusuf and
Amzi passed the last hours among their poor, and, from the housetop,
Kedar and Manasseh saw them returning in the evening, followed by a
ragged crowd who clung to their gowns or wiped tearful eyes with
tattered sleeves.

The sun went down as the caravan left the city, and on an eminence
above, the little Jewish band stopped to take a last look at their old
home--Mecca, with its low houses, its crooked streets, its mystic Caaba,
and its weird mountain scenery.

All gray it lay beneath the shades of falling night; yet, as they
looked, a wondrous change ensued. Gradually the landscape began to
brighten; the houses shone forth; the aloe trees became green; the side
of Abu Kubays sparkled with a seemingly self-emitted light; the rocks of
the red mountain were dyed with a rosy glow; the Caaba grew more and
more distinct, until even the folds of its kiswah were visible; and the
sand of the narrow valley shone, beneath a saffron sky above, with a
coppery radiance. It was the wondrous "after-glow" of the Orient,--a
sc