were gone from the room, Israel closed the
door of it that he might shut out the noises of the streets, for women
were calling to their children without, and the children were still
shouting in their play. This being done, he returned to Naomi and rested
her head against his bosom and soothed her with his hand, and she put
her arms about his neck and clung to him. And while he did so his heart
yearned to speak to her, and to see by her face that she could hear.
Let it be but one word, only one, that she might know her father's
voice--for she had never once heard it--and answer it with a smile.

"Daughter! My dearest! My darling."

Only this, nothing more! Only one sweet word of all the unspoken
tenderness which, like a river without any outlet, had been seventeen
years dammed up in his breast. But no, it could not be. He must not
speak lest her face should frown and her arms be drawn away. To see that
would break his heart. Nevertheless, he wrestled with the temptation.
It was terrible. He dared not risk it. So he sat on the bed in silence,
hardly moving, scarcely breathing--a dust-laden man in a ragged jellab,
holding Naomi in his arms.

It was still the month of Ramadhan, and the sun was but three hours set.
In the fondak called El Oosaa, a group of the town Moors, who had fasted
through the day, were feasting and carousing. Over the walls of the
Mellah, from the direction of the Spanish inn at the entrance to the
little tortuous quarter of the shoemakers, there came at intervals a
hubbub of voices, and occasionally wild shouts and cries. The day was
Wednesday, the market-day of Tetuan, and on the open space called the
Feddan many fires were lighted at the mouths of tents, and men and
women and children--country Arabs and Barbers--were squatting around the
charcoal embers eating and drinking and talking and laughing, while the
ruddy glow lit up their swarthy faces in the darkness. But presently the
wing of night fell over both Moorish town and Mellah; the traffic of the
streets came to an end; the "Balak" of the ass-driver was no more heard,
the slipper of the Jew sounded but rarely on the pavement, the fires on
the Feddan died out, the hubbub of the fondak and the wild shouts of the
shoemakers' quarter were hushed, and quieter and more quiet grew the air
until all was still.

At the coming of peace Naomi's fears seemed to abate. Her clinging arms
released their hold of her father's neck, and with a trembling sigh