"It is true, madam," said Israel; "it is true that I have a treasure
there. My daughter--my little blind Naomi."

"Is that all?" cried Katrina and Ben Aboo together.

"It is all," said Israel, "but it is enough. Let me fetch her."

"Don't allow it!" cried Katrina.

Israel's face betrayed feeling. He was struggling to suppress it. "Make
me homeless if you will," he said, "turn me like a beggar out of your
town, but let me fetch my daughter."

"She'll not thank you," cried Katrina.

"She loves me," said Israel, "I am growing old, I am numbering the steps
of death. I need her joyous young life beside me in my declining age.
Then, she is helpless, she is blind, she is my scapegoat, Basha, as I am
yours, and no one save her father--"

"Ah! Ah! Ah!"

Israel had spoken warmly, and at the tender fibres of feeling that had
been forced out of him at last the woman was laughing derisively. "Trust
me," she cried, "I know what daughters are. Girls like better things.
No, I'll give her what will be more to her taste. She shall stay here
with me."

Israel drew himself up to his full height and answered, "Madam, I would
rather see her dead at my feet."

Then Ben Aboo broke in and said, "Don't wag your tongue at your
mistress, sir."

"_Your_ mistress, Basha," said Israel; "not mine."

At that word Katrina, with all her evil face aflame came sweeping down
upon Israel, and struck him with her fan on the forehead. He did not
flinch or speak. The blow had burst the skin, and a drop of blood
trickled over the temple on to the cheek. There was a short deep pause.

Then the hard tension of silence was broken by a faint cry. It came from
behind, from the doorway; it was the voice of a girl.

In the blank stupor of the moment, every eye being on the two that stood
in the midst, no one had observed until then that another had entered
the patio. It was Naomi. How long she had been there no one knew, and
how she had come unnoticed through the corridors out of the streets
scarce any one--even when time sufficed to arrange the scattered
thoughts of the Makhazni, the guard at the gate--could clearly tell. She
stood under the arch, with one hand at her breast, which heaved visibly
with emotion, and the other hand stretched out to touch the open
iron-clamped door, as if for help and guidance. Her head was held up,
her lips were apart, and her motionless blind eyes seemed to stare
wildly. She had heard the hot words. She had heard the