Would not Ben Aboo be glad to have done with this servant who has been so long his master? Then why trouble him with your grievance? Act for yourselves, and the Kaid will thank you!
And well may this Israel ben Oliel praise the Lord and worship Him, that He has not put it into the hearts of His people to play the game of breaker of tyrants by the spilling of blood, as the races around them, the Arabs and the Berbers, who are of a temper more warm by nature, must long ago have done, and that not unjustly either, or altogether to the displeasure of a Kaid who is good and humane and merciful, and has never loved that his poor people should be oppressed."At this word, though it made pretence to commend the temperance of the crowd, the fury broke out more loudly than before.
"Away with the man!" "Away with him!" rang out on every side in countless voices, husky and clear, gruff and sharp, piping and deep.
Not a voice of them all called for mercy or for patience.
While the anger of the people surged and broke in the air, a third voice came through the tumult, and Naomi knew it, for it was the harsh voice of Reuben Maliki, the silversmith and keeper of the poor-box.
"And does God," said Reuben, "any more than Ben Aboo--blessings on his life!--love that His people should be oppressed?
How has He dealt with this Israel ben Oliel? Does He stand steadfastly beside him, or has His hand gone out against him? Since the day he came here, five-and-twenty years ago, has God saved him or smitten him?
Remember Ruth, his wife, how she died young! Remember her father, our old Grand Rabbi, David ben Ohana, how the hand of the Lord fell upon him on the night of the day whereon his daughter was married!
Remember this girl Naomi, this offspring of sin, this accursed and afflicted one, still blind and speechless!"Then the voices of the crowd came to Naomi's ears like the neigh of a breathless horse.Fatimah had laid hold of her gown and was whispering."Come! Let us away!" But Naomi only clutched her hand and trembled.
The harsh voice of Reuben Maliki rose in the air again.
"Do you say that the Lord gave him riches? Behold him!--he swallowed them down, but has he not vomited them up? Examine him!--that which he took by extortions has he not been made to restore?
Does God's anger smoke against him? Answer me, yes or no!"Like a bolt out of the sky there came a great shout of "Yes!"And instantly afterwards, from another direction, there came a fourth voice, a peevish, tremulous voice, the voice of an old woman.
Naomi knew it--it was the voice of Rebecca Bensabott, ninety-and-odd years of age, and still deaf as a stone.
"Tut! What is all this talking about?" she snapped and grunted.
"Reuben Maliki, save your wind for your widows--you don't give them too much of it.And, Abraham Pigman, go home to your money-bags.
I am an old fool, am I? Well, I've the more right to speak plain.
What are we waiting here for? The judges? Pooh! The sentence?
Fiddle-faddle! It is Israel ben Oliel, isn't it? Then stone him!
What are you afraid of? The Kaid? He'll laugh in your faces.
A blood-feud? Who is to wage it? A ransom? Who is to ask for it?
Only this mute, this Naomi, and you'll have to work her a miracle and find her a tongue first.Out on you! Men? Pshaw!
You are children!"
The people laughed--it was the hard, grating, hollow laugh that sets the teeth on edge behind the lips that utter it.
Instantly the voices of the crowd broke up into a discordant clangour, like to the counter-currents of an angry sea."She's right,"said a shrill voice."He deserves it," snuffled a nasal one.
"At least let us drive him out of the town," said a third gruff voice.
"To his house!" cried a fourth voice, that pealed over all.
"To his house!" came then from countless hungry throats.
"Come, let us go," whispered Fatimah to Naomi, and again she laid hold of her arm to force her away.But Naomi shook off her hand, and muttered strange sounds to herself.
"To his house! Sack it! Drive the tyrant out!" the people howled in a hundred rasping voices; but, before any one had stirred, a man riding a mule had forced his way into the middle of the crowd.
It was the messenger from under the Mellah gate.In their new frenzy the people had forgotten him.He had come to make known the decision of the Synhedrin.The flag had fallen; the sentence was death.
Hearing this doom, the people heard no more, and neither did they wait for the procession of the judges, that they might learn of the means whereby they, who were not masters in their own house, might carry the sentence into effect.The procession was even then forming.
It was coming out of the synagogue; it was passing under the gate of the Mellah; it was approaching the Sok el Foki.The Rabbis walked in front of it.At its tail came four Moors with shamefaced looks.
