Too drowsy to heed the absurdity of such a plea at such an hour, Kirby grumbled a surly assent, and dozed again as he heard Najib rumbling, in the dark, among the shelves of the packing-box bookcase in a far corner of the tent.  Here were stored nearly a hundred old volumes which had once been a part of the missionary library belonging to Kirby’s father at Nablous.  A few years earlier, at the moving of the mission, the dead missionary’s scanty library had been shipped across country to his son.

Kirby awoke at greyest daylight.  Through force of habit he woke at this hour; in spite of the workless day which he knew confronted him.  It was his custom to get up and take his bath in the rain cistern at this time, and to finish dressing just as the men piled out for the morning’s work.

Yet now the first sounds that smote his ears as he opened his eyes were the rhythmic creak of the mine windlass and equally rhythmic, if less tuneful, chant of the men who were working it;

"All-ah sa-eed!—­Ne-bi sa-eed!  Ohe!  Sa-eed!  Sa-eed!  Sa-EED!"

In the distance, dying away, he heard the plodding hoofs of a string of pack mules.  From the direction of the mine came the hoodlum racket which betokens, in Syria, the efforts of a number of honest labourers to perform their daily tasks in an efficient and orderly way.

Kirby, in sleepy amaze, looked at his watch in the dim dawn light.  He saw it was still a full half hour before the men were due to begin work.  And by the sounds he judged that the day’s labour was evidently well under way.  Yes, and to-day there was to have been no work done!

Kirby jumped out of bed and strode dazedly to his tent door.  At the mine below him his fellaheen were as busy as so many dirty and gaudy bees.  Even the lordly lazy Turkish soldiers were lending a hand at windlass and crane.  Over the nick of the pass, leading toward Jerusalem, the last animal of a mule train was vanishing.  Najib, who had as usual escorted the departing shipment of ore to the opening in the pass, was trotting back toward camp.

At sight of Kirby in the tent door the little superintendent veered from his course toward the mine and increased his pace to a run as he bore down upon the American.  Najib’s swart face was aglow.  But his eyes were those of a man who has neglected to sleep.  His cheeks still bore flecks of the dust he had thrown on his head when Kirby had explained the wreck of his scheme and of his future.  There, in all likelihood, the dust smears would remain until the next rain should wash them off.  But, beyond these tokens of recent mental strife, Najib’s visage shone like a full moon that is streaked by dun dust clouds.

“Furthermore, howadji!” he hailed his chief as soon as he was within earshot, “the shipment for Alexandretta is on its wayward—­over than an hour earlier than it was due to bestart itself.  And those poor hell-selected fellaheen are betoiling themselfs grand.  Have I done well, oh, howadji?”