His path lay open before him--a far land
called him, his quiet past was infinite leagues away. Already the staff
was in his hands and the cross-roads were sinking into the distance
behind. He was dimly conscious of the wan, shocked face of Faith in the
crowd beneath him, which seemed blurred and swaying, of the bowed head of
Luke Claridge, who, standing up, had taken off his hat in the presence of
this news of his brother's death which he saw written in David's face.
David stood for a moment before the great throng, numb and speechless.
"It is a message from Damascus," he said at last, and could say no more.
Ebn Ezra Bey turned a grave face upon the audience.
"Will you hear me?" he said. "I am an Arab." "Speak--speak!" came from
every side.
"The Turk hath done his evil work in Damascus," he said. "All the
Christians are dead--save one; he hath turned Muslim, and is safe." His
voice had a note of scorn. "It fell sudden and swift like a storm in
summer. There were no paths to safety. Soldiers and those who led them
shared in the slaying.
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