58 I GO A-FISHING. 



" At length, as I sat holding his head on my breast, 

 he turned his face so as to look up into my eyes. His 

 gaze was long and steadfast, as if his soul would pierce 

 my own. Then he spoke slowly, painfully, in Arabic. 



"'Thy face has all the tenderness of the face that 

 comes to me in dreams. Her face — so heavenly !' 



Ali Benhammed, my Arab friend, stood looking at us, 

 and, as the features of the dying chief lay close to mine, 

 uttered an exclamation of astonishment. The other 

 Arabs crowding around said aloud, ' They are brothers !' 



" ' Iskander Effendi,' said Ali to me, ' is the Druse your 

 brother ?' 



"There was something in the question that startled 

 me. 



" ' Selim, who was your father,' I said. 



" ' Why seek to know, Iskander ? Even Edith never 

 knew.' 



" ' Because my father was a Hebrew, and my mother 

 a Christian, and they have told me that my younger 

 brother died.' 



" ' Allah ! can this be !' he exclaimed, trembling so 

 that Edith, who did not understand us, for we talked in 

 Arabic, sprang to his side, fearing that this was the death- 

 struggle. But it was not yet the hour of parting. I had 

 found my kindred; for Selim the Druse was verily my 

 brother ! Found him for one hour — one hour — and after 

 that, where should we meet again ? In the Jerusalem of 

 Abraham and Isaac and Jacob, or never again ? 



" The story was told slowly in broken accents, and 

 Edith and I listened all the night, wiping his lips and 

 begging him to rest. But he would tell it, and we heard 

 it all. Briefly, all that concerns you to know was this : 



"Between our father and mother was made an agree- 



