“Have hope!” she whispered in his ear.  “I have poisoned the prophet.”

Manasseh uttered an exclamation of horror.

“Why not?” she said, with a laugh.  “Manasseh fights with a lance, Zaynab with poison.  Now, fly, ere they see you!”

Manasseh hastened down the dark streets to the house in which Kedar had been placed.  He found the youth moaning feebly.  Hurrying out, he caught a couple of stray camels, and fastened a shugduf in its place.  Then, raising the youth in his strong arms, he laid him in the shugduf, and set off in the darkness.

To Mecca he must go.  It was a long, weary way.  He had little money, and the few provisions which a Jewish woman in the house gave him would not last long; yet he trusted to Providence, and remembered with satisfaction that the dates were now at their ripest.  He would nurse Kedar tenderly; they would journey in the cool shades of night when there was less danger of being stopped on the way.  Planning thus, he proceeded, as noiselessly as possible, with his precious burden, through a gap in the wall, and urged his faithful beasts on in the cool night breezes over the blackened plain.

Then he thought of Asru.  Asru must not be left to be rudely thrown into a grave by infidel hands.  There was danger in it, but he must go back.  Kedar was sleeping.  He fixed the camels by a charred palm grove, and went back, with flying feet, through the gloom.  The towers of Al Kamus rose above him, with lights twinkling on the battlements.  He wondered if the prophet were yet alive and what would be the result to Arabia if he were dead.  On, on, through the darkness, until the fatal breach was reached.  It was quite deserted, peopled only by a heap of dead bodies, from which, in the night time, the superstitious Arabs shrank in horror.  Groping among them, he soon came upon Asru’s huge form, which he readily recognized by its armor.  He dragged the precious clay of his friend from the mass of dead and brought it, with difficulty, outside of the wall; and there beneath a palm tree, he hollowed out a lonely grave, loosening the clay with a battle-axe taken from a dead Arab, and throwing the clods out with his shield.  He then cut a wisp of hair from the dead soldier’s long locks, placed it in his bosom, kissed the cold brow, and uttered a short prayer over the lifeless form.  Tenderly he placed the body in the shallow grave, and covered it with the clay, then, breathing a last farewell, left Asru forever in this life.

In the meantime Mohammed and one of his followers had begun to eat of the poisoned mutton.  The soldier was ravenous with hunger, and set upon the tempting roast with eager relish.  Mohammed partook of it more slowly.

Suddenly the soldier threw up his arms, and fell back in a convulsion.  Mohammed started back in consternation.  He, too, felt pain, and raised the cry of “Poison!” The Moslems came rushing in in great alarm.  Antidotes were given him, and he shortly recovered, with but a slight sensation of burning in his head.  The poor soldier was soon stiff in death.