Some years ago a Frenchman, who, like many of his countrymen, had won a high rank among men of science, yet denied the God who is the Author of all science, was crossing the Great Sahara in company with an Arab guide. He noticed with a sneer that at certain times his guide, whatever obstacles might arise, put them all aside, and kneeling on the burning sands, called upon God.
Day after day passed, and still the Arab never failed, till at last one evening the philosopher, when he rose from his knees, asked him with a contemptuous smile: “How do you know there is a God?”
The guide fixed his eyes on the scoffer for a moment in wonder, and then said solemnly: “How do I know there is a God? How did I know that a man, and not a camel, passed my hut last night in the darkness? Was it not by the print of his foot in the sand? Even so,” and he pointed to the sun, whose last rays were flashing over the lonely desert, “that is not the footprint of a man!”