It is not strange, therefore, that, shortly after he had presented a banner to a Moslem army which he commanded to march toward Syria on May 27, 632, for the purpose of avenging the defeat at Muta, he found himself curiously listless and weak. Late one subsequent night, accompanied only by a servant, he stole out to the cemetery on the edge of Medina. After a long and melancholy period of meditation, he thus apostrophized the souls of the dead: “Verily, both ye and I have received fulfilment of that which our Lord did promise us. Blessed are ye! for your lot is better than the lot of those that are left behind. Temptation and trial approach like portions of a dark night that follow one upon another, each darker than that preceding it. O Lord! have mercy upon them that lie buried here!” Next morning, as he passed Ayesha’s chamber, he heard her calling out, “My head!--O, my head!” Entering, he gently reproved her thus: “Nay, Ayesha, it is rather I that have need to cry _My head, my head!_ But wouldst thou not,” he continued, in a feeble attempt to be humorous, “desire to be taken whilst I am yet alive; so that I might pray over thee, and wrapping thee, Ayesha, in thy winding-sheet, myself commit thee to the grave?” Then, in spite of her pain, she railed at him. “Ah, that, I see, is what thou wishest for! Truly, I can behold thee, when all was over, returning straightway hither, and sporting with a new beauty in my chamber here!” But, perceiving that he was really ailing, she forgot her own headache and tenderly cared for him.