By Frederick E. Dewhurst

[Sidenote:  The Mountain of Vision]

Now, it happened a long time ago, in the year ——­, but the exact year 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 the mountain looking across the sea in the direction where you will find Tyre and Joppa on the map.  He was, very plainly, not one of the peasants who lived on the mountain-side.  He looked about sixty years of age; he was tall and erect, though he carried a staff in his hand.  His hair and beard were long and flowing, and almost gray, but his eye was clear and penetrating, and he was looking across the sea as though he expected some one to appear.

And while he stood there gazing seaward, there appeared a second man on the summit, helping himself up with his staff, and panting with the effort of the long climb.  From his dress and manner it was plain that this man, too, was not one of the peasants, for, like the first comer, he seemed to belong to another age and clime.  The two men glanced at each other and gave such greeting as strangers might who should meet in so solitary a spot as a mountain summit.  Then both lapsed into silence and looked off across the sea.

[Sidenote:  And Findeth a Friend]

Presently the last comer seemed to awake from his reverie.  He walked over to the place where the other man was sitting, still gazing off toward Joppa, and touched him on the shoulder:  “A thousand pardons, my friend,” he said, “but my mind is haunted with some far-off recollection, as though in some other land and some far-off time I had seen thy face.  Wilt thou have the kindness to tell me thy name?”