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vnhe decided to take his nephew with
him.
Muhammad was twelve years old
now and he was bursting with
excitement for he had never been
to Syria before. He had only heard
the wonderful tales of its huge
cities, and tall towers. Its fascinating
market-places and strange people.
All was ready and the caravan set
off. It made its slow windy, way
across the golden desert sands
until, after many hot days and chilly
nights, it reached the city of
Busrah.
The monk, Bahira, was seated all
alone that day in his monastery. He
had just finished reading one of his
books when he streched and
yawned, looking out through his
window across the desert. Through