ed temptation--I die
as I lived, a man of peace. It is too late to think how it might have
gone had we met face to face; but the will of God worketh not according
to our will. I can write no more. Luke, Faith, and Davy--dear Davy, the
night has come, and all's well. Good morrow, Davy. Can you not hear me
call? I have called thee so often of late! Good morrow! Good morrow!...
I doff my hat, Davy--at last--to God!"

David's face whitened. All his visions had been true visions, his dreams
true dreams. Brave Benn Claridge had called to him at his door--"Good
morrow! Good morrow! Good morrow!" Had he not heard the knocking and the
voice? Now all was made clear. His path lay open before him--a far land
called him, his quiet past was infinite leagues away. Already the staff
was in his hands and the cross-roads were sinking into the distance
behind. He was dimly conscious of the wan, shocked face of Faith in the
crowd beneath him, which seemed blurred and swaying, of the bowed
head of Luke Claridge, who, standing up, had taken off his hat in the
presence of this news of his brother's death which he saw written in
David's face. David stood for a moment before the great throng, numb and
speechless. "It is a message from Damascus," he said at last, and could
say no more.

Ebn Ezra Bey turned a grave face upon the audience.

"Will you hear me?" he said. "I am an Arab." "Speak--speak!" came from
every side.

"The Turk hath done his evil work in Damascus," he said. "All the
Christians are dead--save one; he hath turned Muslim, and is safe." His
voice had a note of scorn. "It fell sudden and swift like a storm in
summer. There were no paths to safety. Soldiers and those who led them
shared in the slaying. As he and I who had travelled far together these
many years sojourned there in the way of business, I felt the air grow
colder, I saw the cloud gathering. I entreated, but he would not go. If
trouble must come, then he would be with the Christians in their peril.
At last he saw with me the truth. He had a plan of escape. There was a
Christian weaver with his wife in a far quarter--against my entreaty he
went to warn them. The storm broke. He was the first to fall, smitten in
'that street called Straight.' I found him soon after. Thus did he speak
to me--even in these words: 'The blood of women and children shed
here to-day shall cry from the ground. Unprovoked the host has turned
wickedly upon his guest. The storm has been sown,