Amzi sighed.  “Yusuf,” he said, “it appears all dark, impenetrable, to me.  A wall of adamant seems to stand between me and God.  Pray for me, friend.  In this matter I fear I am heartless.”

In spite of this assertion, there was genuine concern in the tone, and the priest’s face flushed in the glad light of hope.

“Amzi,” he exclaimed, “my hope for you increases.  Even now, you begin to realize your own self:  it remains for you to realize God’s self.  Know God—­would I could burn that upon your heart!  All else would be made plain.”

Amzi sighed again.  For a time he sat in silence, then he said: 

“I have been reading of the tabernacle, and of the sacrifices therein.”

“Typical of the death of Christ,” returned Yusuf.  “A constant emblem of that mind which was, and is to-day, ready to suffer, that we may understand its infinite love.”

“Strange, strange!” said Amzi, musingly.  Then after a long silence:  “Yusuf, have you ever noted the resemblance of the Caaba to the reputed appearance of the tabernacle?”

“The resemblance struck me from the first glance—­the courtyard, the temple itself, and the curtain (or ‘Kiswah’) corresponding to the veil of the tabernacle.  This same Caaba may trace its origin in some dim way to the ancient tabernacle, of which, in this land, the significance must have become lost in the centuries during which the Ishmaelitish race forgot the true worship of God.”

“And what think you of the course which affairs are now taking in Arabia?” asked Amzi.  “You believe in the supervision of God; why, then, does he permit such outbreaks as the present one is proving to be?”

“I certainly believe that the Creator sees and knows all things.  I believe, too, that even to Mohammed, at one time in his life, the Holy Spirit appealed, as he did to me, and, I hope, does now to you, Amzi,—­for his pleadings come sometime to all men; but, I think that if in earnest at first, Mohammed—­if, indeed, he be not a monomaniac on the subject of his divine calling—­has given himself up to the wild indulgence of his ambition, forgetting Him whose power is able to direct us all aright.  Hence, he guides himself, rather than seeks to be guided, and, in such a case, he may sometimes be allowed to go on in his own way, bearing with him those who are so foolish as to accept his teaching.  Something of this kind may, indeed, be one of the secrets of the crimes and calamities which enter into many human lives.  God leaves us free to choose.  When we come to know him we choose to be his followers.  If we are indifferent to him, he may, at times, look on without interfering in our lives except to send us occasionally great trouble, or great joy, as an appeal to us.  His mercy is great.  He pities and pleads with us, yet he leaves us free.”

“And what, think you, will be the effect upon Arabia of this rising?”

Yusuf shook his head.  “I know not,” he said.  “We cannot see now, nor mayhap until ages have rolled by; but ‘at eventide it shall be light.’”