Secretively, the lad gave me this explanation: "Since I had to hurry so much, everything here had to be put in place very quickly." "Well now, where did you find all of the heroes?" "Right away, you'll hear them." With these words, he went to the door and motioned to someone outside. Immediately, there arose a triumphant whoop that was at least fifty to sixty voices strong. The pitch and tone of this cheer were so shocking and unnatural, that all of this noise could not have come from real lions, elephants, hippos, and whales. "May Allah have mercy on you!" I called out. "That's enough. Please stop!" When he beckoned with his hand, everything quieted down. Still, we couldn't see where these "beasts" were hidden away. "That completes it," he said. "Just one last time, I had to let them blare. Now they've had their way, so they won't do it again. Well now, do we want to visit Lazarus' Grave where you can take some photos?"
We all agreed to go, because the sun was already beginning to sink; if we waited any longer, we wouldn't have enough daylight for a good picture. Thar and Schamah ran on ahead, but her mother asked to stay behind. Before it grew dark, she wanted to be sure that their rooms were ready for night time. Her request was such a natural one, that we fully understood her wish to remain at the house. So we went on without her and soon caught up with the children. We positioned the camera so that it was pointed toward the entrance of the tomb. As far as we knew, no one was inside.
From behind a door inside the cave, out stepped the official attendant, waving his arms in the air and shouting at us: "Not now! Not now! Now it is forbidden, because a Muslim is inside, a Follower of the Prophet!" Click! He was too late; my wife had just snapped the camera's shutter. In spite of our disobedience of his orders, we were thankful to have a good picture that illustrates this part of my narrative. Just as we were putting the camera away, we saw the "Believer of the Prophet" emerge from Lazarus' Tomb. When he recognized us, he happily hurried out to greet us. It was our good friend Mustafa Bustani. "How fitting and how right it feels that we should meet here!" he said. "On our way home, let's go through Kafr et Tur, just like we did yesterday." Turning towards his son, he asked: "And you too?" When he saw Schamah, he respectfully bowed: "And who is this small, lovely child?"