om of life had not yet
revealed; enough for Naomi, for a new sense, a sixth sense, had surely
come to her; enough for Ali also, for his big little heart was broken.

"What matter about me?" thought Ali again. "Take her, Mahdi," he said
aloud in a shrill voice. "Her father is waiting for her--take her to
him."

"Lady," said the Mahdi, "can you trust me?"

And then without a word she went to him; like the needle to the magnet
she went to the Mahdi--a stranger to her, when all strangers were as
enemies--and laid her hand in his.

Ali began to laugh, "I'm a fool," he cried. "Who could have believed
it? Why, I've forgotten to lock the Kasbah! The villains will escape. No
matter, I'll go back."

"Stop!" cried the Mahdi.

But Ali laughed so loudly that he did not hear. "I'll see to it yet," he
cried, turning on his heel. "Good night, Sidi! God bless you! My love to
my father! Farewell!"

And in another moment he was gone.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE FALL OF BEN ABOO

The roysterers in the Kasbah sat a long half-hour in ignorance of the
doom that was impending. Squatting on the floor in little circles,
around little tables covered with steaming dishes, wherein each plunged
his fingers, they began the feast with ceremonious wishes, pious
exclamations, cant phrases, and downcast eyes. First, "God lengthen your
age," "God cover you," and "God give you strength." Then a dish of dates,
served with abject apologies from Ben Aboo: "You would treat us better
in Fez, but Tetuan is poor; the means, Seedna, the means, not the will!"
Then fish in garlic, eaten with loud "Bismillah's." Then kesksoo covered
with powdered sugar and cinnamon, and meat on skewers, and browned
fowls, and fowls and olives, and flake pastry and sponge fritters, each
eaten in its turn amid a chorus of "La Ilah illa Allah's." Finally three
cups of green tea, as thick and sweet as syrup, drunk with many "Do me
the favour's," and countless "Good luck's." Last of all, the washing
of hands, and the fumigating of garments and beard and hair by the
live embers of scented wood burning in a brass censer, with incessant
exchanges of "The Prophet--God rest him--loved sweet odours almost as
much as sweet women."

But after supper all this ceremony fell away, and the feasters thawed
down to a warm and flowing brotherhood. Lolling at ease on their rugs,
trifling with their egg-like snuff-boxes, fumbling their rosaries for
idleness more than piety, stretching their