does not matter, because you will not find this story written in the
history of any of the nations of the world. But in one of the
countries of Europe bordering on the Mediterranean Sea was a lofty
mountain, which, to the dwellers in the plains below, seemed to reach
to the very sky. At times its summit was covered with clouds, so that
it could not be seen; at other times it stood out fair and clear, as
though silently asking the people to look up and not down. The lower
slopes of the mountain were covered with olive trees, with groves of
oranges and lemons, and with vineyards, and they were dotted here and
there with the little white cottages of the peasants who made their
living from these groves and vineyards, the fruit of which they sold
in the city not far away.

[Sidenote: Sunset in the Sea]

Along the mountain-side wound a foot-trail even to the summit, and
nowhere, in all the region, was there a finer view of the
Mediterranean than from the summit of this mountain. In the long
summer afternoons the peasants and children would climb to the top and
look off on the lovely picture of land and sea. Then they would eat
their simple lunch of bread and dates and olives and quench their
thirst from the spring on the mountain-side, which they called
"Dew-of-heaven," so clear and fresh and sparkling was it; and when the
sun began to touch the western sky with his pencils of gold and
carmine and purple, they hastened down, that they might reach their
cottages before the night shut in.

[Sidenote: A Stranger Cometh]

On the day when this story begins a man was standing on the summit of