they bent upon that dread, mysterious power, the Doctor!  They watched him take his phials out; they watched him measure the particles of white powder; they watched him add drops of one precious liquid, and drops of another; they lost not the slightest movement; their eyes were riveted upon him with a fascination that nothing could distract.  I believe they thought he was gifted like a god.  When each individual got his portion of medicine, his eyes were radiant with joy —­notwithstanding by nature they are a thankless and impassive race—­and upon his face was written the unquestioning faith that nothing on earth could prevent the patient from getting well now.

Christ knew how to preach to these simple, superstitious, disease-tortured creatures:  He healed the sick.  They flocked to our poor human doctor this morning when the fame of what he had done to the sick child went abroad in the land, and they worshiped him with their eyes while they did not know as yet whether there was virtue in his simples or not.  The ancestors of these—­people precisely like them in color, dress, manners, customs, simplicity—­flocked in vast multitudes after Christ, and when they saw Him make the afflicted whole with a word, it is no wonder they worshiped Him.  No wonder His deeds were the talk of the nation.  No wonder the multitude that followed Him was so great that at one time—­thirty miles from here—­they had to let a sick man down through the roof because no approach could be made to the door; no wonder His audiences were so great at Galilee that He had to preach from a ship removed a little distance from the shore; no wonder that even in the desert places about Bethsaida, five thousand invaded His solitude, and He had to feed them by a miracle or else see them suffer for their confiding faith and devotion; no wonder when there was a great commotion in a city in those days, one neighbor explained it to another in words to this effect:  “They say that Jesus of Nazareth is come!”

Well, as I was saying, the doctor distributed medicine as long as he had any to distribute, and his reputation is mighty in Galilee this day.  Among his patients was the child of the Shiek’s daughter—­for even this poor, ragged handful of sores and sin has its royal Shiek—­a poor old mummy that looked as if he would be more at home in a poor-house than in the Chief Magistracy of this tribe of hopeless, shirtless savages.  The princess—­I mean the Shiek’s daughter—­was only thirteen or fourteen years old, and had a very sweet face and a pretty one.  She was the only Syrian female we have seen yet who was not so sinfully ugly that she couldn’t smile after ten o’clock Saturday night without breaking the Sabbath.  Her child was a hard specimen, though—­there wasn’t enough of it to make a pie, and the poor little thing looked so pleadingly up at all who came near it (as if it had an idea that now was its chance or never,) that we were filled with compassion which was genuine and not put on.