Abu-Bekr nodded thoughtfully.

“The Hindus are an ancient race, and their priests are learned beyond all others.”

“Have you ever made a man rise, Cartaphilus?”

I related my entrance into China. He remained silent for a long while, his hands upon his knees.

He rose. “Allah himself inspires you.”

“Go then, Abu-Bekr,—announce the death and the resurrection of the true Prophet, and order all believers to come at sunset to the Mountain of the Light.”

“It shall be done as you say.”

“Then—return to me, unseen by the rest.”

“I shall return…unseen.”

The sky was heavy with clouds, and a storm seemed imminent. No more propitious moment could have been desired. The people, awed by the weather, attributed their emotion entirely to the great event which was about to take place. The old men remembered that on the day of the Prophet’s birth, the heavens were just as black, and a terrible storm followed,—but only the wicked were hurt, and their houses demolished. The good remained unscathed.

“Let the unbelievers purify their hearts now, and repent!” exclaimed, at intervals, the priests. “God shall have mercy only upon those who believe. So says the Prophet.”

Thousands sang, wept, or called to Allah to witness the anguish of their souls. Abu-Bekr, Kotikokura and I were hidden by a rock which had the shape of a great bowl, halfway overtipped. The body of Mohammed, dressed in a white silk robe, his face dazzling, lay outstretched in the open coffin at our feet.

Suddenly the clouds were rent as if by a long white whip. “Now, Abu-Bekr!” I whispered.

“The Prophet lives forever!” he exclaimed.

The priests burst into a wild chant. The people shouted: “The Prophet lives forever!”

The coffin began to rise out of the enclosure, overtopped the rock and remained in mid-air. A gasp, as if a colossal smothered abyss suddenly flooded with air,—and then a shout that stifled the thunder-clap.

“The Prophet ascends to Allah!”

“The angels are lifting him up!”

“Look! Look!”

“Allah is the only God and Mohammed is His Prophet!”

“He is rising! He is rising!”

“He lives forever!”

The lightning flashed in quick succession. The thunderclaps beat against the mountain like Herculean hammers.

The people fell upon their faces, weeping, groaning, singing.

“Allah is the only God and Mohammed is His Prophet!”

Still hidden by the rock, Abu-Bekr called out: “Hearken all!”

“He speaks! He speaks!”

“The Prophet speaks!”

“Hearken all!”

“The Prophet lives!”

“The Prophet speaks!”

“Hearken! Hearken!”

Out of a cloud of smoke rose the voice.

“Go forth among the rest of men and proclaim the Word of the Prophet!”

“We shall go forth, Prophet of Allah!”

“We shall go forth!”

“Accept all those who believe as brothers, and slay the infidels everywhere. So commands Allah!”

“Allah is the only God and Mohammed is His Prophet!” Abu-Bekr chanted.

“We obey the Prophet.”

“You have seen the Prophet rise.”

“We have seen him rise.”

“The angels are lifting him to Heaven, where all those who believe in him shall follow him.”

“We believe! We believe!”

Again, but more distant, the spectral voice proceeded out of the clouds.

“That you may never forget, I bequeath unto you the Kaaba upon which I have placed the crescent moon, taken from Heaven for a night. It is my gift to the faithful ones, that they may never forget.”

“We shall never forget!”

“Allah is the only God and Mohammed is His Prophet.” From the peak of the hills, the voice continued: “Return now, children of Allah. Let not your eyes gaze again upon the Mountain of Light, until the morning, lest you be stricken blind.”

“We return, Prophet of Allah.”

“Return!”

The priests sang:

The people repeated the refrain. Their voices mingled with the thunderclaps.

The coffin with the body of the Prophet descended slowly as if held by a rope. We carried it to a ditch which we had dug previously, and buried it, covering the grave with a rock. Suddenly, the clouds began to disperse, as if some over-industrious divinity had swept them into a corner. We mounted our horses.

“Behold I too can work miracles, Jesus of Nazareth! “I exclaimed. “Your name and your followers shall be as dust underneath the hoofs of Mohammed’s horses.”

“Allah is the only God and Mohammed is His Prophet!” Abu-Bekr shouted.

The resurrection of Mohammed gave his religion a new spiritual significance and united the followers as if a gigantic hand, stretching from the Red Sea to the outer rim of the desert, closed into a firm fist. There was no doubt that Mohammedanism—as the new sect was beginning to be called—would prosper luxuriantly as a young and powerful tree.

My work was accomplished. The Crescent would overtop the Cross, I was certain of it. Meanwhile, I could abide patiently my time, catching once more the thread of my soul, entangled among the recent events.

I decided to leave. Abu-Bekr did not persuade me to remain. He had begun to think of me in terms of the superhuman, and accepted my word as irrevocable. Perhaps, too, he feared me. Could I not, if I wished, claim to be Mohammed returned to life, or his appointed successor?

True to the word of the Prophet, however, he paid his debts with a large interest, and we took farewell of each other, promising to meet in Paradise, and sit on opposite couches, rejoicing in the bounties of Allah and His Prophet, Mohammed.

“KOTIKOKURA, I must find my soul. Cartaphilus cannot live without a soul, or with a soul, entangled among trifles, like the roots of a tree. Cartaphilus must hold his soul in the palm of his hand, like a perfect crystal. He must watch the shadows of his existence dance upon it, and guess what strange things are the realities casting them.”

Kotikokura grinned.

“But my soul, Kotikokura, will not stay motionless upon my palm. It is quicksilver, not crystal. It slides off, breaking into many pieces. I must gather them together, and it is not easy.”

“Ca-ta-pha will find.”

“Where? Once—long ago—you whirled about me, Kotikokura and your head pointed the way; but it is not wise to address Fate twice in the same fashion. She remembers, and being a woman of caprices, may purposely misguide us. This time, my friend, we must reason our path…and what is more fallacious than reason? Here, however, we cannot remain. Come! Let us wander aimlessly, and perhaps our feet, wiser than our heads, shall tell us whither to go and where to stop.”

In front of us four slaves urged the oxen that pulled the two carts filled with our belongings,—mainly books, curious bits of art and part of my gold and precious stones hidden in statuary and vases.

Kotikokura rode at my side. From time to time, I would tell him something. His answers were invariably a grin or a half-articulate growl. Nevertheless, I felt that somehow he understood me, perhaps better than any human being I had known through the centuries.

What united him to me? Was it merely because he had been my companion for so long, or because he had rebelled, as I had, against some irrational divinity? Was the Hindu doctor right, perhaps, that the blood contained the soul and the life of man, and Kotikokura having partaken of my blood had become, in some mysterious way—myself—an inarticulate elemental self,—a self long buried within me, which I no longer knew or recognized?