The Arab, though greatly astonished at the request, acceded to their wish.
Five times had the sun of Palestine risen and set on the Arab and his two companions. The heat, the intolerable glow of the burning sand, had well-nigh exhausted their strength, and both Eogan and Thorgills feared they would not be able to reach their journey’s end.
One morning they came within sight of a low, barren, rocky hill. The Arab said, “In the side of yonder hill is the cave where dwells the hermit I did leave so ill.”
“Didst thou ever learn his name?” asked Thorgills.
“He would give no name, even to his brother hermits. ‘I am but a poor pilgrim to the Holy Land,’ he would say, and no more would he tell. When I came to see him first, I knew he was of the far North, and that the heat of the Syrian desert had withered his strength, as the ice doth dwindle in the sun. Then, too, I could discern that some mighty sorrow had crushed out the spirit of life; so that it drags along too wounded to lift up the ailing body.”
Thorgills bowed his head, and it seemed as if he could not breathe for the sudden pain at his heart. His king! his dauntless viking! so crushed with sorrow and all the strong spirit conquered!
None of the little party spoke for a few moments. They had reached the foot of the hill, and the Arab,
