"I know not. He is in heaven."

"And does he stoop to take notice of us, the children of earth?"

"Alas, I know not! There was once a time when Jesus was more than a name
to me. When I knelt, a child, beside my mother on the grassy hills of
Hebron, it seemed that Jesus was, in some vague way, a reality to me;
but long years of forgetfulness have passed since then. Stranger, I wish
you well. Your words have brought back to me the desire to know more of
him. If you learn aught of him, and it ever lies in your way to do so,
come and tell us,--my Musa and me,--that we too may learn of him."

Rising to her feet, the woman saluted the Persian and left him. Musa
entered to conduct him to the rugs set apart for his couch, and soon
all was silent about the encampment.

But ere he fell asleep, Yusuf went out into the moonlight. The night was
filled with the peculiar lightness of an Oriental night. The moon blazed
down like a globe of molten silver, and a few large stars glowed with
scarcely secondary brilliance. In the silvery brightness he could easily
read the manuscript given him by the Jew. It was the story of the man
with the withered hand, whose infirmity was healed by Jesus in the
synagogue. And there, in the starlight, the priest bowed his head, and a
throng of pent-up emotions throbbed in his breast.

"Spirits of the stars, show me God. If this Jesus be indeed the Son of
God, show me him. Give me faith, such faith as had he of the withered
hand, that I too may stretch forth my hand and be made whole; that I may
look, and in looking, see."