Thou canst not live in strength nor die with fortitude
without it. For the old, malaish, old age is between a sleeping and a
waking! Come, Saadat! Forget not, thou must ride again to Cairo at dawn."
David got slowly to his feet and turned towards the monastery. The figure
of a monk stood in the doorway with a torch to light him to his room.
He turned to Ebn Ezra again. "Does thee think that I have aught of his
courage--my Uncle Benn? Thou knowest me--shall I face it out as did he?"
"Saadat," the old man answered, pointing, "yonder acacia, that was he,
quick to grow and short to live; but thou art as this date-palm, which
giveth food to the hungry, and liveth through generations. Peace be upon
thee," he added at the doorway, as the torch flickered towards the room
where David was to lie.
"And upon thee, peace!" answered David gently, and followed the smoky
light to an inner chamber. The room in which David found himself was
lofty and large, but was furnished with only a rough wooden bed, a rug,
and a brazier. Left alone, he sat down on the edge of the bed, and, for a
few moments, his mind strayed almost vaguely from one object to another.
Pages:
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595