From the Eastern Road, a caravan from the Nejd was descending slowly into the town, and so clear was the atmosphere that Amzi could distinguish the huge, white dromedaries, and catch an occasional glint of a green shugduf, or the gorgeous litter of a grandee, trapped in scarlet and gold.

It was indeed a fair scene, and Amzi enjoyed it to the full with the keen enjoyment of one who possesses an esthetic temperament, an intense love of the beautiful.  Yet he began to feel lonely in this town of his adoption.  It was long since he had seen Yusuf, and he commenced to think seriously of returning for a time to Mecca.

Besides, he was tired of waiting for Mohammed’s long-deferred visit, and he was anxious again to see the man whose strange fascination over him he scarcely dared to acknowledge even to himself.  The emptiness and idleness of his own life was beginning to pall upon him, and he compared unfavorably his sluggish existence with the busy, quietly energetic way in which Yusuf was spending his days.

One source of unfailing pleasure to him had been the companionship of Dumah, who had followed him to Medina, but was wandering about as usual, returning to Amzi when tired or hungry, as a birdling returns to its mother’s wing.

And Amzi had almost a mother’s love for the boy, for poor Dumah seemed a child still; he had grown but little, his face was paler than of old, his eyes were as large and blue, and his bright hair fell in the same soft curls above his regular and clear-cut features.  Like Yusuf, Amzi felt that the orphan’s very helplessness was an appeal to his heart, and he did not lock its doors.

Dumah now came in wearily.  He lay down at Amzi’s feet and put his head on his knee.  The Meccan stroked his soft hair gently.

“Where has my Dumah been?” he asked tenderly.

“Watching the people going out foolishly.  Dumah would not go with them.”

“Going where, lad?”

“Out to the gardens where the lotus blows, and the date-palms wave, and the citron and orange grow.”

“And why go they, then, foolishly?” smiled Amzi.

“Because they go to meet him, and they are carrying white robes, and they will bring him in as a prince,—­the wicked one, who would place himself above our blessed Master!”

Amzi started up quickly, and threw his pipe down.

“Is Mohammed here?” he cried.

“He is here.  But you will not go too, Amzi?  Alas that I told you!  The angels I see in my dreams do not smile, they look away and vanish when I think of Mohammed.  Yusuf does not love him!  Let not Amzi!” pleaded the orphan.

But the Meccan was gone.  Hastening on towards the outskirts of the city, he met a great crowd of people, pressing about Mohammed and Abu Beker, each of whom was dressed in a white garment, and riding triumphantly upon a white camel, the prophet being mounted on his own beast El Kaswa.