It was Manasseh who came, almost startled by the naturalness of the tone.

“I have been very ill, Manasseh?”

“Very.”

“Long?”

“For weeks.  But you must not talk.  You will soon be well now.”

The invalid closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to think.  Presently he opened them.

“Manasseh, if I had died, would I have seen Asru?”

Manasseh was embarrassed.  “I—­I cannot say,” he stammered.  “I do not know you well enough to be sure.”

“You do not think I should.  I do not think so either,” he returned decidedly, and closed his eyes again.

In a few days he was able to talk.

“Manasseh, did I hear Yusuf praying for me once when I was ill?”

“He prayed for you every day,—­not only that you might be spared to us, but that you might come to know Jesus, and to reject Mohammed.”

“I do not think that I ever accepted him—­that is, in a religious sense,” he returned.

Manasseh’s eyes opened wide in astonishment.  “Then why did you follow him?” he asked.

“Because, I suppose, his successes dazzled me.  It seemed a grand thing to be a hero in the war—­to ride, and charge, and drive all before me.  Aye, Manasseh, it is after the war that the scales fall from one’s eyes.”

“How could you, then, follow one whom you did not accept, and must, therefore, have deemed an impostor?”

“I tell you, Manasseh, I gave little heed to matters of religion.  For the first time, during the last few days, I have thought of a religious life, or of a hereafter, as I lay here feeling that but for you and your friends, I should even now be in the unknown land beyond the grave.”

Manasseh talked long and earnestly to the now convalescent youth.  Yusuf and Amzi too talked gently to him when he seemed inclined to hear, but, in his present weak state, they deemed that the consciousness of living in a godly house would appeal more strongly than words of theirs.  The weeks passed on, yet he gave no indication that their hopes were being realized.  Once indeed he said: 

“Manasseh, would that I had had a godly training such as yours!”

“Did your mother not tell you of these things?”

Kedar shook his head.  “My poor mother drifted away from her early training in our half-heathen Bedouin atmosphere,” he said.  “The Bedouins know little of Christ.  They have traditions of the creation, of the deluge, and such old-time stories; in all else they are almost heathen.  When I am well, Manasseh, we will go to them—­to my father—­and you will tell them, Manasseh?”

Manasseh nodded a smiling assent.