“Thou dost not know Nourahmal and dost discredit her; that’s slander; thou dost know me and ridiculest me; that’s—but—I’ll not say it.” “I’d not pain my Ichabod.” “Nor discredit Nourahmal?” “No; but did this angel, or Syren of thine, having shown the peril, present a map to a city of refuge?” “Ah, poor, helpless girl! she has none for herself, much less for us. She just told me all and wept and kissed me a farewell, praying me to flee. I could think of no question in the delight of hearing her say, she hoped I’d meet her in Heaven, in peace away from Moslem and wars. Only think of her faith! All new; just a little while ago she did not know there was a heaven for women. I felt I could die then in peace. I’ve taught one woman that she is more than a pretty animal!” “Then, Jew, to thee, life is worth living?” “Oh truly! Oh, if this light could only spread over Egypt and all my own Syria!” “Thy desire is akin to that of Mary’s son and noble. Certain it is that we can not spread that light by fighting to sustain the fateful Crescent.” “By the glory of God, I never will.” “Nor I, son of Abraham; so let’s decline.” “And go to the slave mart?” “Oh, no, not while I’ve a sword, Ichabod.” “Then to flee is the word?” “The eastern campaigning with the sheik, would be a little longer route to Paradise?” “Perhaps not; I am assured that we are needed of God by the use He has recently made of us. He will keep us in our flight from bloody persecuting war, and possible apostacy.” “I hate the last word! A knight enchanted of Mary can never become a renegade; not I, at least. I was born October ninth. Tradition says that the holy St. John Damascene, having had his hand cut off by the Saracens that day, was by Our Lady miraculously made whole, and lived long after to wield a powerful, facile pen in her behalf. I’ll trust my head and saber hand, used for her, to her protection.” “And I’ll trust Him that led the wandering hosts of Moses; for ‘in all their affliction, He was afflicted with them, and the angel of His presence saved them; and He bore them and carried them all the days of old.’ Oh, master, I’ve comfort I can not tell, when I feel orphaned, by thinking of my Maker, not only as a Father, but as a Mother! God is our Mother when we, bereft of mother-love, most feel our need of it. So thou toldst me in the mountains.” “True; but shall we try our escape now?” “Nay, we had better wait till a little before dawn; the camp patrol is then withdrawn; then we’ll embrace freedom.” “The Jew seems very confident.” “Oh, I spent the hour after I met Nourahmal (God keep her), amid the palms for which Jericho is fitly named, and got a token.” “A token?” “My eyes were touched in the darkness.” “Sweet Nourahmal followed thee?” “No, but He that opened the eyes of blind Bartimeus near here.” “What didst thou see?”