ses?

Drifting and dreaming, Michael wandered on, the summer heavens above
him, the mediaeval city surrounding him. The hot day's work was over;
men and women were enjoying in their Oriental fashion the cooler and
sweeter air of the late evening. Portly figures of elderly men were
descending the high steps which raise the mosque-doors from the level
of the street; narrow, two-wheeled carts, of immense length, packed
full of black bundles--Egyptian women closely veiled--were taking tired
workers back to their homes in the suburbs. Darkness, which falls so
quickly and early in the East, even in mid-summer, was bringing relief
to sun-tired eyes.

Reaction was affecting Michael very strongly. It had only set in when
the absence of the Iretons from Cairo had suddenly opened up a chasm of
distrust and doubt before his feet. In his desolate wandering through
the city, Margaret seemed very far away. Indeed, he had never felt any
assurance of her sympathy and presence since he had recovered from his
illness. He had nerved and braced himself to make the supreme effort
which he knew would be demanded of him if he was to reach the Valley;
he had made it wholly unaided by any subconscious sense of her
spiritual presence. His assurance of her unchanged confidence in his
devotion had left him. It was to his material, not spiritual,
will-power and determination that he owed his victory over the physical
exhaustion which he had experienced.

He scarcely thought of Margaret as he wandered on; in his mood of
self-pity he felt abandoned. Every minute he was drawing nearer and
nearer to the gates of el-Azhar. Unconsciously he desired that when he
reached the gate which led into the Court of the Perfection of Peace,
it would open, and strong arms would gather him up as they had gathered
him up in the Libyan Desert, and drown his restlessness and doubts in
their strength; that he might spend his future at rest under the shadow
of the Everlasting Arms--The God of Akhnaton, the God of Jesus, the God
of Mohammed, His Arms encompass and enfold the world.

At the gates of el-Azhar Michael paused and listened. The praises of
Allah, and man's love for Him, went up from a hundred devout voices.
The pillared courtyard looked vast and solemn; the soft air of the
summer night vibrated with the sonorous chanting of students and
professors. The peace of God which passeth all understanding
beautified the mediaeval building, which has been