"These Arabs have no sense of humour," he muttered, as he rode away.
The only human beings he saw on that long day's journey were three
shepherds--two youths and an old man; the elder youth, standing on a
low wall, which might be Roman or Carthaginian, Turkish or Arabian
(an antiquarian would doubtless have evolved the history of four
great nations from it), watched a flock of large-tailed sheep and
black goats, and blew into his flageolet, drawing from it, not
music, only sounds without measure or rhythm, which the wind carried
down the valley, causing the sheep-dog to rise up from the rock on
which he was lying and to howl dismally. Near by the old man walked,
leaning on the arm of the younger brother, a boy of sixteen. Both
wore shepherd's garb--tunics fitting tight to the waist, large
plaited hats, and sandals cut from sheep-skin. The old man's eyes
were weak and red, and he blinked them so constantly that Owen
thought he must be blind; and the boy was so beautiful that one of
the Arabs cried out to him, in the noble form of Arab salutation:
"Hail to thee, Jacob, son of Isaac; and hail to thy father."
Owen repeated the names "Jacob!" "Isaac!" a light came into his face,
and he drew himself up in his saddle, understanding suddenly that he
had fallen out of the "Odyssey," landing in the very midst of the
Bible; for there it was, walking about him: Abraham and Isaac, the
old man willing to sacrifice his son to please some implacable God
hidden behind a cloud; Jacob selling his birthright to Esau, the
birthright of camels, sheep, and goats.
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