And then the brave girl--all courage and strength, a quivering bow of
steel--took up the song where he had left it, though her voice trembled
and the tears started to her eyes.

As Naomi sang Israel made some poor shift to beat the time to her,
though once and again his feeble hand fell back into his breast. When
she had done singing Israel looked at the Mahdi and then at her, and
smiled, as if he and she and the song were one to him.

But indeed Naomi had hardly finished when the wail came again, now
nearer than before, and louder. Israel heard it. "Hark! They are coming.
Keep close," he muttered.

He fumbled and tugged with one hand at the breast of his kaftan. The
Mahdi thought his throat wanted air, but Naomi, with the instinct of
help that a woman has in scenes like these, understood him better. In
the disarray of his senses this was his way of trying to raise himself
that he might listen the easier to the song outside. The girl slid her
arm under his neck, and then his shrunken hand was at rest. "Ah! closer.
'God is great'!" he murmured again. "'God--is--great'!" With that word
on his lips he smiled and sighed, and sank back. It was now quite dark.

When the Mahdi returned to his place at Israel's feet the dying man
seemed to have been feeling for his hand. Taking it now, he brought it
to his breast, where Naomi's hand lay under his own trembling one. With
that last effort, and a look into the girl's face that must have pursued
him home, his grand eyes closed for ever.

In the silence that followed after the departing spirit the deep swell
of the funeral wail came rolling heavily on the night air: "Allah Akbar!