"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.

With a howl of fear, the little Jew sprang through the door and
disappeared in the darkness.

Musa laughed contemptuously.

"Ha, lack-brained cur!" he said, "I would not have hurt him, having
broken bread with him in mine own tent! Yet, friend Persian, one cannot