trend of his thoughts. "It
was a crimson amethyst--he always kept it in his ear. They buried me,
Meg, beside the saint. The sand drifts very quickly, it runs and runs
along the surface of the desert, so quickly and silently, like oozing
water over a dry river-bed." He gazed wildly at Abdul. "Will you tell
my old friend at el-Azhar that I have been dead for a long time? Tell
him that the sands drift very quickly. Margaret mustn't cry. The wind
is the desert grave-digger. Take your wicked hands away!" Abdul had
touched his wrist. "You'll never, never tempt me any more, because I'm
dead, I tell you. I was go tired, I got off my camel, and lay down,
and you ran away, you little coward. And the sands covered me, and I'm
dead, thank God!"

Abdul waited and watched and trusted in Allah. His devotion was
complete; he surrendered himself to his master in his material life as
completely as he surrendered himself spiritually to his God. And he
had his reward, for gradually Michael's youth and splendid constitution
asserted themselves; the fever abated--natives have their own wise
methods of treating it. There were days when he seemed almost well,
far on the way to recovery, but they were often followed by hours of
reaction and high delirium. These reactions were familiar to Abdul;
they did not depress him. Nevertheless they required time and
patience. It was Michael's first attack of fever, and therefore he was
able to throw it off more completely than if his system had been
undermined by it.

To Abdul his convalescent stage was a time of perfect content. As is
often the case with Orientals, he loved his European master with a
sentiment and romance which finds no equivalent in Western natures.
This sentiment and romance had increased intensely during Michael's
illness. Abdul now looked upon him as a personal possession; he had
nursed him back to life and health; he was a gift which Allah had
placed in his hands. He had no sons of his own, so his master filled
the unforgettable void. His conversion to Islam was Abdul's most
earnest prayer.

The only cloud in his blue sky was the knowledge that Michael was
disappointed and distressed by the fact that he had not, in some manner
or other, let the Effendi Lampton know that he was seriously ill.
Abdul could not have written himself, for he could neither read nor
write English; he always spoke to Michael in Arabic. It was therefore
impossible for him to write