The man was singing a wild chant of cheerful labour, the soul of the hard-smitten of the earth rising above the rack and burden of the body: "O, the garden where to-day we sow and to-morrow we reap! O, the sakkia turning by the garden walls; O, the onion-field and the date-tree growing, And my hand on the plough-by the blessing of God; Strength of my soul, O my brother, all's well!" The meaning of the song got into his heart.

He pressed his hand to his breast with a sudden gesture.

It touched something hard.

It was his flute.

Mechanically he had put it in his pocket when he dressed in the morning.