ce of the sun had made the desert seem inhospitable and
dreary. The saint was too weak to protest and so he was carried to the
camp. Millicent watched the slow procession with anger and amazement.
She knew that Michael was rash and impetuous, but she had not given him
credit for being such a fool.

While he was being put to bed in a tent, and carefully attended to,
Michael tried to discover if the saint was really ill, if he was
suffering from some specific malady, or if he was merely worn out with
fatigue. He administered a drug to him which he hoped would soothe his
nerves and allow him to sleep.

In a dog-like manner the man's tragic eyes eloquently expressed both
his astonishment and gratitude. It was long since he had slept in a
comfortable bed, under sheets and blankets. He rarely spoke, except to
mutter or loudly chant in a half-delirious manner _suras_ from the
Koran.

When Michael had attended to his simple wants and seen to it that his
servants were not only willing but eager to nurse him, he left him to
their care and immediately hurried off to his own tent to change his
clothes and disinfect himself as thoroughly as possible--a necessary
precaution, although the man had not been as dirty as Millicent had
depicted. His _dilk_, or Joseph's coat, was indeed tattered and his
turban in the last stages of decay, but they were clean. His person
was not offensive. A pathetic figure, fleshless and worn and neurotic;
yet in the sands of the desert he had performed his ablutions before
prayer, as prescribed by the Prophet in the Holy Book. The untrodden
sands of the desert are as cleansing and purifying as the waters of
Jordan.

When Michael at last returned to Millicent, she said quite gently,
although her inward woman burned with anger, "Mike, are you mad or a
saint? How could you touch him?"

"I'm far from being a saint!" he said.

"You are as much one as that wretched creature, who has pretended he is
one for so long that he now believes he is."

"Or his Moslem brethren do, perhaps you mean!"

"Well, he acts up to their superstitious ideas."

"I can't tell. He is too ill to speak. He is probably as sincere a
Moslem as St. Jerome was a Christian--why not?"

"What's the matter with him?" A little fear clutched at Millicent's
heart.

"I don't know--Abdul couldn't discover. The man is too exhausted to
talk. I'll speak to him in the morning and find out."

"I hope it's nothing infectious--