“It is time to go, Davy,” the paper said. “All that I have is thine. Go to Egypt, and thee shall find it so. Ebn Ezra Bey will bring thee. Trust him as I have done. He is a true man, though the Koran be his faith. They took me from behind, Davy, so that I was spared 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.