in the market-place they parted. willard bent, after some hesitation, had asked harry spink to come to the mission that evening. “you’d better come to supper — then we can talk quietly afterward. mr. blandhorn will want to see you,” he suggested; and mr. spink had affably acquiesced.

the prayer-meeting was before supper, and willard would have liked to propose that his friend should come to that also; but he did not dare. he said to himself that harry spink, who had been merely a lay assistant, might have lost the habit of reverence, and that it would be too painful to risk his scandalizing mr. blandhorn. but that was only a sham reason; and willard, with his incorrigible habit of self-exploration, fished up the real one from a lower depth. what he had most feared was that there would be no one at the meeting.

during mrs. blandhorn’s lifetime there had been no reason for such apprehension: they could always count on a few people. mrs. blandhorn, who had studied medicine at ann arbor, michigan, had early gained renown in eloued by her miraculous healing powers. the dispensary, in those days, had been beset by anxious-eyed women who unwound skinny fig-coloured children from their dirty draperies; and there had even been a time when mr. blandhorn had appealed to the society for a young lady missionary to assist his wife. but, for reasons not quite clear to willard bent, mrs. blandhorn, a thin-lipped determined little woman, had energetically opposed the coming of this youthful “sister,” and had declared that their jewish maid-servant, old myriem, could give her all the aid she needed.

mr. blandhorn yielded, as he usually did — as he had yielded, for instance, when one day, in a white inarticulate fury, his wife had banished her godson, little ahmed (whose life she had saved), and issued orders that he should never show himself again except at prayer-meeting, and accompanied by his father. mrs. blandhorn, small, silent and passionate, had always — as bent made out in his long retrospective musings — ended by having her way in the conflicts that occasionally shook the monotony of life at the mission. after her death the young man had even suspected, beneath his superior’s sincere and vehement sorrow, a lurking sense of relief. mr. blandhorn had snuffed the air of freedom, and had been, for the moment, slightly intoxicated by it. but not for long. very soon his wife’s loss made itself felt as a lasting void.

she had been (as spink would have put it) “the whole show”; had led, inspired, organized her husband’s work, held it together, and given it the brave front it presented to the unheeding heathen. now the heathen had almost entirely fallen away, and the too evident inference was that they had come rather for mrs. blandhorn’s pills than for her husband’s preaching. neither of the missionaries had avowed this discovery to the other, but to willard at least it was implied in all the circumlocutions and evasions of their endless talks.

the young man’s situation had been greatly changed by mrs. blandhorn’s death. his superior had grown touchingly dependent on him. their conversation, formerly confined to parochial matters, now ranged from abstruse doctrinal problems to the question of how to induce myriem, who had deplorably “relapsed,” to keep the kitchen cleaner and spend less time on the roofs. bent felt that mr. blandhorn needed him at every moment, and that, during any prolonged absence, something vaguely “unfortunate” might happen at the mission.

“i’m glad spink has come; it will do him good to see somebody from outside,” willard thought, nervously hoping that spink (a good fellow at bottom) would not trouble mr. blandhorn by any of his “unsettling” questions.

at the end of a labyrinth of lanes, on the farther side of the jewish quarter, a wall of heat-cracked clay bore the inscription: “american evangelical mission.” underneath it a door opened into a court where an old woman in a bright head-dress sat under a fig-tree pounding something in a mortar.

she looked up, and, rising, touched bent’s draperies with her lips. her small face, withered as a dry medlar, was full of an ancient wisdom: mrs. blandhorn had certainly been right in trusting myriem.

a narrow house-front looked upon the court. bent climbed the stairs to mr. blandhorn’s study. it was a small room with a few dog-eared books on a set of rough shelves, the table at which mr. blandhorn wrote his reports for the society, and a mattress covered with a bit of faded carpet, on which he slept. near the window stood mrs. blandhorn’s sewing-machine; it had never been moved since her death.

the missionary was sitting in the middle of the room, in the rocking chair which had also been his wife’s. his large veined hands were clasped about its arms and his head rested against a patch-work cushion tied to the back by a shoe-lace. his mouth was slightly open, and a deep breath, occasionally rising to a whistle, proceeded with rhythmic regularity from his delicately-cut nostrils. even surprised in sleep he was a fine man to look upon; and when, at the sound of bent’s approach, he opened his eyes and pulled himself out of his chair, he became magnificent. he had taken off his turban, and thrown a handkerchief over his head, which was shaved like an arab’s for coolness. his long beard was white, with the smoker’s yellow tinge about the lips; but his eyebrows were jet-black, arched and restless. the gray eyes beneath them shed a mild benedictory beam, confirmed by the smile of a mouth which might have seemed weak if the beard had not so nearly concealed it. but the forehead menaced, fulminated or awed with the ever-varying play of the eyebrows. willard bent never beheld that forehead without thinking of sinai.

mr. blandhorn brushed some shreds of tobacco from his white djellabah and looked impressively at his assistant.

“the heat is really overwhelming,” he said, as if excusing himself. he readjusted his turban, and then asked: “is everything ready downstairs?”

bent assented, and they went down to the long bare room where the prayer-meetings were held. in mrs. blandhorn’s day it had also served as the dispensary, and a cupboard containing drugs and bandages stood against the wall under the text: “come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden.”

myriem, abandoning her mortar, was vaguely tidying the arab tracts and leaflets that lay on the divan against the wall. at one end of the room stood a table covered with a white cloth, with a bible lying on it; and to the left a sort of pulpit-lectern, from which mr. blandhorn addressed his flock. in the doorway squatted ayoub, a silent gray-headed negro; bent, on his own arrival at eloued, ten years earlier, had found him there in the same place and the same attitude. ayoub was supposed to be a rescued slave from the soudan, and was shown to visitors as “our first convert.” he manifested no interest at the approach of the missionaries, but continued to gaze out into the sun-baked court cut in half by the shadow of the fig-tree.

mr. blandhorn, after looking about the empty room as if he were surveying the upturned faces of an attentive congregation, placed himself at the lectern, put on his spectacles, and turned over the pages of his prayer-book. then he knelt and bowed his head in prayer. his devotions ended, he rose and seated himself in the cane arm-chair that faced the lectern. willard bent sat opposite in another arm-chair. mr. blandhorn leaned back, breathing heavily, and passing his handkerchief over his face and brow. now and then he drew out his watch, now and then he said: “the heat is really overwhelming.”

myriem had drifted back to her fig-tree, and the sound of the pestle mingled with the drone of flies on the window-pane. occasionally the curses of a muleteer or the rhythmic chant of a water-carrier broke the silence; once there came from a neighbouring roof the noise of a short cat-like squabble ending in female howls; then the afternoon heat laid its leaden hush on all things.

mr. blandhorn opened his mouth and slept.

willard bent, watching him, thought with wonder and admiration of his past. what had he not seen, what secrets were not hidden in his bosom? by dint of sheer “sticking it out” he had acquired to the younger man a sort of visible sanctity. twenty-five years of eloued! he had known the old mad torturing sultan, he had seen, after the defeat of the rebels, the long line of prisoners staggering in under a torrid sky, chained wrist to wrist, and dragging between them the putrefying bodies of those who had died on the march. he had seen the great massacre, when the rivers were red with french blood, and the blandhorns had hidden an officer’s wife and children in the rat-haunted drain under the court; he had known robbery and murder and intrigue, and all the dark maleficence of africa; and he remained as serene, as confident and guileless, as on the day when he had first set foot on that evil soil, saying to himself (as he had told willard): “i will tread upon the lion and the adder, the young lion and the dragon will i tread under foot.”

willard bent hated africa; but it awed and fascinated him. and as he contemplated the splendid old man sleeping opposite him, so mysterious, so childlike and so weak (mrs. blandhorn had left him no doubts on that point), the disciple marvelled at the power of the faith which had armed his master with a sort of infantile strength against such dark and manifold perils.

suddenly a shadow fell in the doorway, and bent, roused from his dream, saw harry spink tiptoeing past the unmoved ayoub. the drummer paused and looked with astonishment from one of the missionaries to the other. “say,” he asked, “is prayer-meeting over? i thought i’d be round in time.”

he spoke seriously, even respectfully; it was plain that he felt flippancy to be out of place. but bent suspected a lurking malice under his astonishment: he was sure harry spink had come to “count heads.”

mr. blandhorn, wakened by the voice, stood up heavily.

“harry spink! is it possible you are amongst us?”

“why, yes, sir — i’m amongst. didn’t willard tell you? i guess willard bent’s ashamed of me.”

spink, with a laugh, shook mr. bland-horn’s hand, and glanced about the empty room.

“i’m only here for a day or so — on business. willard’ll explain. but i wanted to come round to meeting — like old times. sorry it’s over.”

the missionary looked at him with a grave candour. “it’s not over — it has not begun. the overwhelming heat has probably kept away our little flock.”

“i see,” interpolated spink.

“but now,” continued mr. blandhorn with majesty, “that two or three are gathered together in his name, there is no reason why we should wait. — myriem! ayoub!”

he took his place behind the lectern and began: “almighty and merciful father — ”