der. The peddler looked up, and his face blanched with fear.

It was the little Jew, who, having escaped like an eel from Manasseh's
care after the Battle of Ohod, and having become thoroughly frightened
at the idea of remaining longer in a war-ridden district, had
disappeared like magic from the plains of Arabia, and had become once
more the insignificant Jewish peddler in the more secure provinces to
the north.

"Do not be frightened," laughed Manasseh. "We no longer take prisoners
of war; yet, for the sake of old acquaintance, I claim you to partake of
our feast."

The little man was half-dragged to the table and given a place by
Nathan, who spoke kindly to him. Yet he did not feel at ease. The stolen
cup seemed to point an accusing finger at him; and he ate little, and
talked less.

Presently he caught a glimpse of Yusuf. The sight of the man whom he had
so nearly delivered to death was too much for him. His little eyes
darted about as if suspicious of some design upon his freedom. He could
not understand the magnanimity of these people, and, deeming discretion
the better part of valor, he sprang from the table, shouldered his pack,
and was off, to be seen no more.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE FAREWELL.

"Sondry folk, by aventure y-falle in felaweschipe."--_Chaucer._

And now, our tale draws to a close, and time permits but a parting
glance at those who have been so long a goodly company of friends.

Amzi has, in his descent to old age, developed a wonderful activity of
mind and body. He has become one of the most influential members of the
little town in which he has taken up his abode. Realizing as never
before the duty which man owes to man, and fully awakened at last to the
fact that our talents are given us to be exercised fully, he no longer
dreams away time in the Arab Kaif; but, from morning to night, his plump
figure and good-natured old face are seen, up and down, in the mart, in
the council-chamber, in the church, wherever he can lend a helping hand.
He has even assumed the role of schoolmaster, and upon the earthen floor
of an unused hall he gathers day by day a troop of little ones, over
whom he bends patiently as they cling to his gown for sympathy in their
small trials, or as they trace upon their wax tablets, with little,
uncertain hands and in almost illegible characters, the words of a copy,
or text.

"Aye," he says, "who knows what these little ones may some day