“Is it indeed true that in Mecca stands a building called the Ka’aba, also called Bayt Ullah, or Allah’s House?”

“Yea, Master, that is true,” answered the Arab, with strange eyes.

“And is it indeed covered with a wondrous silken and gold cloth, every year renewed, known as the kiswah?”

“Those words are true.”

“All Moslems greatly revere the Ka’aba?”

“It is the center of our mighty faith, Master.”

“And thou hast seen it with thine own eyes?”

“With my own eyes, Master, for I am a Hadji.[1]” Attentively the Arab was now watching the Master.  Slowly he continued:  “Prayer, with face to Mecca, alms-giving, the keeping of the fast of Ramadan, and the pilgrimage to the Ka’aba, these are our law.  Yea, Master, I have myself seen the Ka’aba, and more than once!”

[Footnote 1:  Title among the Arabs and Moslems in general for one who has performed the pilgrimage to Mecca, a journey which every good Moslem considers necessary for salvation.]

A certain trouble had now grown manifest in Rrisa’s eyes.  His lips moved silently, as if still praying; but no words were audible.  The Master pondered a moment more, then demanded: 

“Is it true there is a sacred Black Stone in the walls of the Ka’aba, precious to all followers of the Prophet, from Africa to China and to the farthest isles?  Revered by all the two hundred and thirty million of your faith?”

“That is true, M’alme.  I myself have touched and kissed the Black Stone.”

“Mecca, the Ka’aba, and the Black Stone are forbidden to all heretics?” relentlessly pursued the Master.

“Wallah!  Yea, so they are to—­all who are not of Islam,” Rrisa tried to soften the answer.

“They tell me,” persisted the Master, “the Black Stone is in the western wall of the Ka’aba, about seven feet from the pavement.”

“That is a lie!” flared Rrisa, with indignation.  “It is in the northeast corner, at the very corner, Master.  It is between four feet and five from the ground.  That, and no other, is the true place, Master, the place of Hajar el Aswad!” (Black Stone.)

“Ah, yes, yes, the books lie,” agreed the Master.  “And they say, too, that certain of the Feringi have indeed touched and even kissed the Black Stone, and still lived.”

Rrisa’s face clouded.  It burned coppery, with a flush of hot blood under that dark skin.  By the clear white light in the cabin, the Master closely observed him.  Idly he broke off a leaf of the khat, and nibbled at it.

“Is that the truth?” he inquired, pitilessly.

“I must speak truth to you, Master,” confessed the Arab, with bitter shame.  “Two of the Feringi—­Nasara men like yourself—­have indeed touched and kissed it.  Two that we know of. Shaytan el Kabir (the Great Satan) may have permitted others to do that, but we know of only two who have done it—­and lived.”