Mahammed al-Islamia should pull her once more the scholar

[D. U. Schearer]

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--
where he had
repaired the ravages of age and accidents.
"We saw you thrown from the boat," he said. "For long
we thought you were dead and we could not get to the
beach to make sure because of marauding bandits. At
nightfall two men of the village went out and brought you
here to me. But that was five days ago; you have been very
ill indeed. We know that you will live to journey afar and
life will be hard."
Hard! Why did everyone tell me so often that life
would be hard? Did they think I liked it? Definitely it
was hard, always had been, and I hated hardship as much
as anyone.
"This is Najin," the priest continued. "We are on the
outskirts. As soon as you are able, you will have to leave
for my own death is near."
For two days I moved carefully around, trying to regain
my strength, trying to pick up the threads of life again. I
was weak, starved, and almost beyond caring whether I
lived or died. A few old friends of the priest came to see
me and suggested what I should do, and how I should
travel. On the third morning as I awakened, I saw the old
priest lying stiff and cold beside me. During the darkness
he had relinquished his hold upon life, and had departed.
With the help of an old friend of his, we dug a grave and
buried him. I wrapped what little food was left in a cloth,
and with a stout stick to help me, I departed.
A mile or so and I was exhausted. My legs shook and
my head seemed