easing mound which Nature was piling up over
the bones of the holy man, which lay in an ocean of sweet silence and
expanse.

CHAPTER XXIII

Early the next morning Michael again stood at the gate of the
university-mosque, but it was a different Michael to the Michael of the
night before. The unseen hand which had stopped him when he was about
to ring the bell did not have to interfere a second time. He rang it
resolutely, thinking calm thoughts, and despising himself for his
foolish mood of the night before.

When the gate was opened to him, he passed in and hurried across the
blinding brightness of the open courtyard. He made haste to reach the
shelter of the colonnade; he was in no drifting humour; he was again
asserting his capacity for being practical about the unpractical. He
did not even allow himself to dwell on the memories which the scene
recalled of the day when he had visited his friend, before he
determined to leave the Valley and go into the Libyan Desert.

When he reached the portion of the building where the old African
student lived, his steps slackened. What if he was dead? He was an
old man for a mid-African, and his physique had been greatly exhausted
by continued chastening of the flesh.

When he was well within sight of his cell he saw the lean, gaunt figure
of the hermit-student standing inside the iron-barred gate; he was
straining his eyes into the distance; he was looking for someone.

When Michael was near enough to address him, which he did in tones of
pleasure and respect, the African opened the gate slowly and not
without difficulty, his trembling hands thinner and more bloodless even
than they had been when Michael had visited him before.

After the proper greetings were exchanged, the African invited Michael
to enter, and asked him if he would lend a patient ear to what he had
to tell him.

"I am an old man," he said. "I can see the end of this existence--it
is not far off. It is well that you have come."

When Michael expressed his sorrow, the tired eyes flashed.

"Do not grieve, my son. When the righteous servant of God sees death
face to face, he does not contend with his God--that is to oppose His
will, that is not in accordance with total resignation."

Michael said that his grief was for himself, not for his friend; his
words were an apology. The old man had seated himself in a humble
attitude on the floor in front of Michael; with the never-failing
court