monastery of Mehmet, set high upon the mountain peak of Takkatu. He was tall and slender, his face worn thin by fasting and endless vigils, his shoulders stooping, his hands so emaciated that the fingers resembled eagles’ talons. His forehead was high and protruding; his eyes bright and glistening; but the lower part of his face, from the small, delicate nose to the receding chin, indicated a weak and vacillating character. Prone upon a narrow divan against the wall reclined another man, also young but of stalwart, rugged frame and with calm and well-fashioned features. His pose was absolutely without motion: not even a muscle twitched. The dark lashes lay over his closed eyes without a tremor. Both wore the loose yellow gowns and high turbans of the Sunnite novitiates, but the one who paced the marble tiles had a band of white around his flowing sleeve--an indication of his superior degree. Through the open peristyle came spicy breezes from near-by Araby. The sun cast intense shadows; a mighty stillness enveloped the monastery, as if the world slept. The two novitiates were not alone. On a stone bench near the outer arches was seated an aged priest, clothed all in pure white, whose set face and hard, unseeing eyes indicated him wholly oblivious of his surroundings. Neither the young men seemed to consider his presence, although from time to time the nervous pacer would cast a swift glance in his direction. Suddenly the latter paused before the divan. “Give me your counsel, Hafiz!” said he, addressing the prostrate form. “Tell me what I must do.” The man upon the divan moved and sat up, regarding the other gravely with clear grey eyes. “Well?” said he. “Must I submit to it?” asked the other, eagerly. “Has my father the right to make this unreasonable, unjust, shameful demand?” Hafiz nodded. “After all these years of study and research,” continued the slender brother, with a passionate gesture, “after a life devoted to religious concentration, to the worship of Allah and His divine manifestations on earth; after delving far into the inner mysteries of the Faith and seeing the day approach when I shall become of the Imaum--after this holy life in this holy temple must I be dragged into the coarse, material world again? Bah! it is outrageous--impossible!” “Yet imperative,” added the man on the divan. His companion had resumed his agitated walk, but suddenly paused again and cast a frightened look at the placid countenance turned upon him. Then the frown faded from his own brow; his eyes softened and he said, gently: “Forgive me, dear Hafiz! I am beside myself with grief. Tell me what I must do!” “They have sent for you?” asked Hafiz. “Yes. My father, the Khan, who has forgotten me since I came here, a little child, is now dying, and he commands my
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