And if it was night in the world without, it was day in Israel’s heart.  “I am going to be happy,” he told himself, “yes, very happy, very happy.”  He raised his eyes to heaven, and a star, bigger and brighter than the rest, hung over the path before him.  “It is leading me to Naomi,” he thought.  He knew that was folly, but he could not restrain his mind from foolishness.  And at least she had the same moon and stars above her sleep, for she would be sleeping now.  “I am coming,” he cried.  He fixed his eye on the bright star in front and pushed forward, never resting, never pausing.

The morning dawned.  Long rippling waves of morning air came down the mountains, cool, chill, and moist.  The grey light became tinged with red.  Then the sun rose somewhere.  It had not yet appeared, but the peak of the western hill was flushed and a raven flew out and perched on the point of light.  Israel’s breast expanded, and he strode on with a firmer step.  “She will be waking soon,” he told himself.

The world awoke.  From unseen places birds began to sing—­the wheatear in the crevices of the rocks, the sedge-warbler among the rushes of the rivers.  The sun strode up over the hill summit, and then all the earth below was bright.  Dewdrops sparkled on the late flowers, and lay like vast spiders’ webs over the grass; sheep began to bleat, dogs to bark, kine to low, horses to cross each other’s necks, and over the freshness of the air came the smell of peat and of green boughs burning.  Israel did not stop, but pushed on with new eagerness.  “She will have risen now,” he told himself.  He could almost fancy he saw her opening the door and looking out for him in the sunlight.

“Poor little thing,” he thought, “how she misses me!  But I am coming, I am coming!”

The country looked very beautiful, and strangely changed since he saw it last.  Then it had been like a dead man’s face; now it was like a face that was always smiling.  And though the year was so old it seemed to be quite young.  No tired look of autumn, no warning of winter; only the freshness and vigour of spring.  “I am going to see my child, and I shall be happy yet,” thought Israel.  The dust of life seemed to hang on him no longer.

He came to a little village called Dar el Fakeer—­“the house of the poor one.”  The place did not even justify its name, for it was a cinereous wreck.  Not a living creature was to be seen anywhere.  The village had been sacked by the Sultan’s army, and its inhabitants had fled to the mountains.  Israel paused a moment, and looked into one of the ruined houses.  He knew it must have been the house of a Jew, for he could recognise it by its smell.  The floor was strewn over with rubbish—­cans, kettles, water-bottles, a woman’s handkerchief, and a dainty red slipper.  On the ragged grass in the court within there were some little stones built up into tiny squares, and bits of stick stuck into the ground in lines.  A young girl had lived in that house; children had played there; the gaunt and silent place breathed of their spirits still.  “Poor souls!” thought Israel, but the troubles of others could not really touch him.  At that very moment his heart was joyful.