It was Manasseh himself who broke in the door of the apartment in which Yusuf was confined.

An exclamation of pleasure burst from him on recognizing the priest, and he threw his arms about his neck.

“Yusuf!  My dear Yusuf!” he cried.

“My boy!” exclaimed the priest, in astonishment.  “What means this?”

“It means that you are free,” said the youth as he knocked off the chains.  “Haste!  We must on to the camp ere the Moslems return.  Anything more than this I will tell you on the way.”

Once again Yusuf stepped out into the pure air, along with many others who bore part of their chains in the broken links that still clanked upon their wrists and ankles.

In passing through the court-yard, the priest noticed some one crouched in a pitiable heap in a corner of the yard.  Manasseh hauled him out.  It was the peddler, with ashen face and eyes rolling with fear.

“Come along, my man!” laughed Manasseh.  “Like the worm in a pomegranate, you are apt to do harm if left to yourself.”

Abraham writhed and begged for mercy.

“Come along!” said Manasseh, impatiently.  “I shall not hurt you; I shall merely look after you for awhile.”

Thus consoled, the peddler hopped on with alacrity.  A hasty mount was made and the party set out for the camp of Abu Sofian.

Yusuf then had a chance to ask the question burning at his heart.  “How comes it, Manasseh, that you again fight against the prophet?  When last I saw you, you wore the green of the Moslem.”

“I!” said the youth in astonishment.  “You jest, Yusuf!”

“It was surely you who met me on the field of Bedr.”

“Yusuf, are you mad?  It was never I.”

“Then who can it have been?  It was your very face.”

“For once, Yusuf, your eyes have played you false.  How could you have believed such a thing of Manasseh?”

“A strange resemblance!” mused Yusuf; then—­“Whom see I before me yonder?”

“Manasseh’s eyes do not play him false, and he declares it to be Amzi,” said the youth.

They hastened up the narrow street, now crowded with soldiers, prisoners, camels, and horses; and, escaping the missiles thrown by infuriated Moslem women from the housetops, soon overtook Amzi and Asru.  All proceeded at once to the camp of Abu Sofian.

Some large tents were set apart for the wounded Koreish, and here Yusuf and Amzi found speedy occupation in binding wounds, and giving drinks of water to the parched soldiers.  Manasseh entered with them.

“What means this?” cried Henda.  “Did I not have you conveyed, soaked with blood, among the wounded of the Koreish?”

“I have not been wounded to-day,” returned Manasseh.  “Read me this riddle, Henda.  There must be a second self—­”

“Here, Manasseh!” interrupted Yusuf from one side.  “Had you a twin brother, this must be he.”

Yusuf was bending over a youth whose dark eyes spoke of suffering, and who lay listlessly permitting the priest to bathe his blood-covered brow.  His eyes were fixed on Manasseh, who was quickly coming forward, and those near wondered at the striking resemblance, more marked than is often found between brothers.