“He that sent the lightnings to show us our way out of dread Jericho, most likely now commissioned some angel to swing a meteor across the sky as a torch or beacon for our guidance. The trail of flame teaches me that God is writing His royal signature on some great message.” “This world is too vast and too thronged with insignificants, such as we, for such especial carings on God’s part. There are too many kings, too many shepherds, too many follies for Him to constantly watch any one or two.” “Backward, forward; now good, now bad. What a charging, changing knight! Pray God to get thee right and then fix thee.” Their converse was interrupted by a prolonged trumpet blast, echoing from hill to hill. Sir Charleroy sprang to his feet and clasping his sword hilt, cried eagerly, “We’re ambuscaded!” “No, by the glory of God, ’twas the temple call! How grand it sounds away in this wilderness!” “No, no, Jew, I’ve heard that call; this one had six responses.” “’Twas echo’s magic! Didst thou not notice how the sound spread as it traveled in a sort of sheet of melody? Then it rose and fell from low hill to high. One blast; seven responses. Nature proclaiming against fate and chance; the covenant number.” “I’m not so confident that it’s a miracle; what if it were some Mamelukes or Druses, planning one of their pious immolations of heretics with us for the victims?” “Nay, brother, It’s ‘_Purim_’; that feast is now due, and always begins at early starlight. I know it. Come, I’ll put it to the proof.” “Hold; poets are more rash than knights in a charge, but not so skillful in retreat! Whither wouldst thou?” “I’ll spy out the trumpeters and report.” “Not alone. I’ll go, too. This camp will care for itself if they beyond be friends; if enemies, why then, without consulting us, they will care for all we have. But this,” said the knight, toying with his sword, “was blessed by a priest to preach to infidels.” CHAPTER XI. THE FEAST OF PURIM.