Yusuf’s heart sank.  Was it only for this that he had come his long and weary way, had braved the heat of day and the untold dangers of night?  In searching for that pure essence, the spiritual, that he craved, had he left the idolatrous leaven at home only to come to another form of it in Mecca?

“But then,” he thought, “this foolish Jew knows not whereof he speaks:  one with the empty brain and the loose tongue of this wanderer has not probed the depths of divine truth.”

“You cannot be going to Mecca as a pilgrim?” hazarded the little man.  “The Magians and the Sabaeans worship the stars, do they not?”

“Alas, yes!” said the priest.  “They have fallen away from the ancient belief.  They worship even the stars themselves, and have set up images to them, no longer perceiving the Great Invisible, the Infinite, who can be approached only through the mediation of the spirits who inhabit the starry orbs.”

“Methinks you will find little better in Mecca.  What are you going there for?” asked the Jew abruptly.

“I seek Truth,” replied the priest quietly.

“Truth!” repeated the Jew.  “Aye, aye, the Persian traveler seeks truth; Abraham, the Jew, seeks myrrh, aloes, sweet perfumes of Yemen, silks of India, and purple of Tyre.  Aye, so it is, and I think Abraham’s commodity is the more obtainable and the more practical of the two.  Yet they do say there are Jews who have sought for truth likewise; and they tell of apostles who gave up their trade and fisheries to go on a like quest after a leader whom many Jews will not accept.”

“Who were the apostles?”

“Oh, Jews, of course.”

“Where may I find them?”

“All dead, well-nigh six hundred years ago,” returned the Jew, indifferently.

Yusuf’s hopes sank again.  He longed for even one kindred spirit to whom he could unfold the thoughts that harassed him.

“I do not know much about what they taught,” continued the Jew.  “Never read it; it does not help in my business.  But I got a bit of manuscript the other day from Sergius, an old Nestorian monk away up in the Syrian hills.  I am taking it down to Mecca.  I just peeped into it, but did not read it; because it is the people who live now, who have gold and silver for Abraham, that interest him, not those who died centuries ago; and the bit of writing is about such.  However, you seem to be interested that way, so I will give it to you to read.”

So saying, the Jew unpacked a heavy bundle, and, after searching for some time, upsetting tawdry jewelry, kerchiefs, and boxes of perfume, he at last succeeded in finding the parchment.

He handed it to the Persian.  “I hope it may be of use to you, stranger.  Abraham the Jew knows little and cares less for religion, but he would be sorry to see you bowing with yon heathen Arab herd at Mecca.”

“Dog!  Son of a dog!”

It was Musa.  Able to restrain his passion no longer, he had sprung to his feet and stood, with flashing eyes and drawn scimitar, in resentment of the slur on his countrymen.