His spirits rose as the cool breeze from the plains struck him.  The vision of sweet home—­sweet to the roving Bedouin as to the pampered child of luxury—­rose before him, and he urged his horse on with an ever-increasing anxiety.

From neighboring tribes they found out the way to Musa’s present encampment, then, spurring their horses on over a crisp plain, and beguiling the time with many a laugh and jest, they proceeded in the direction indicated, until, in a broad valley, the circle of tents lay before them.

“Come, Manasseh,” said Kedar, “let us give them a surprise.  Let us take a turn up yonder hill and swoop down upon them like a falcon.”

“Agreed!” quoth Manasseh; and, with almost childish pleasure, they proceeded to make a short detour, and then galloped rapidly down from the hill-crest.

The encampment was strangely quiet.

“What is the matter, Manasseh?” asked Kedar.  “There is scarcely anyone about.”

A few dogs now set up a savage barking, and a man came out with a heavy whip and drove them, yelping, away.

“What is wrong, Tema?” asked Kedar, anxiously.

“Alas, my young master,” said the man, “your father will soon be no more.”

The youth sprang to the ground and entered the chief’s tent.  There lay the brave old Sheikh, dying, as he had scorned to die, in his bed, with pallid face and closed eyes, his gray hair damp and tangled, and his grizzled beard descending upon his brawny chest, from which the folds of his garments were drawn back.  About him knelt his wife and children.  Lois raised a tear-stained face to her son, then buried it again in her hands.  Kedar threw himself beside the couch.  The old man’s lips moved.

“Aha!” cried he, “it is blood-revenge!  Mizni, bold chief, I have you now!  Yes, fly up to your eyrie among the rocks, if you can.  I shall reach you there!  Blood must be spilled.  My honor!  My honor!”

He was thinking of a fray of his youth in which he had paid the dues of blood for an only brother.  Again, he seemed to be dashing on in the chase.

“On, on, Zebe!” he cried, in a hoarse whisper, “on, good steed!  The quarry is ahead there!  See the falcon swoop!  Good steed, on!”

His voice was growing fainter, yet he continued to wave his arms feebly, and to move his lips in inaudible muttering.  Once more the words became distinct: 

“Here, Kedar, little man!  Let father put you on his horse.  There, boy, there!  You will make a son for a Bedouin to be proud of!”

A tear rolled down Kedar’s cheek as the dying man thus pictured a happy scene of his childhood.  “Poor old father!” he murmured.  “Manasseh, it is hard to see him die thus godlessly.  Had I but come sooner!”

The old Sheikh’s breath came shorter.  His hand moved more feebly; he turned his head uneasily and opened his eyes.

He fixed them upon his son with a look of consciousness.  His face brightened.