“Stop!” cried the tortured monk.  “Bring forth a lance.”

“Nay!  Nay!  You shall hear me through,” gloated Abul Malek; and again Joseph bowed his tonsured head, murmuring: 

“It is my punishment.”

Ringed about thus by his enemies, the priest stood meekly, while the sweat came out upon his face; as the Saracen mocked and jeered at him he made no answer, except to move his lips in whispered grayer.  Had it not been for this sign they might have thought him changed to stone, so motionless and so patient did he stand.  How long the baiting lasted no one knew; it may have been an hour, then Joseph’s passive silence roused the anger of the overlord, who became demoniac in his rage.  His followers joined in harrying the victim, until the place became a babel.  Finally Elzemah stepped forward, torch in hand, and spat upon the giant black-robed figure.

The monk’s face whitened, it grew ghastly; but he made no movement.  Then in a body the infidels rushed forth to follow the example of Abul Malek’s son.  They swarmed about the Christian, jeering, cursing, spitting, snatching at his garments, until their master cried: 

“Enough!  The knave has water in his veins.  His blood has soured.  Deserted by his God, his frame has withered and his vigor fled.”

“Yes,” echoed his daughter.  “He is great only in bulk.  Had he been a Man I might have loved him; but the evil has fled out of him, leaving nothing but his cassock.  Off with his robe, Elzemah.  Let us see if aught remains.”

With swift movement her brother tore at the monk’s habit, baring his great bosom.  At this insult to his cloth a frightful change swept over the victim.  He upheaved his massive shoulders, his gleaming head rose high, and in the glaring light they saw that his face had lost all sweetness and humility; it was now the visage of a madman.  All fleshly passion stored through thirty years of cloister life blazed forth, consuming reason and intelligence; with a sweep of his mighty arms he cleared a space about him, hurling his enemies aside as if they were made of straw.  He raised his voice above the din, cursing God and men and Moors.  As they closed in upon him he snatched from the hands of a lusty slave a massive wrought-iron brazier, and whirling it high above his head, he sent its glowing coals flying into the farthest corners of the room.  Then with this weapon he laid about him right and left, while men fell like grain before the reaper.

“At him!” shouted Abul Malek, from his balcony.  “Pull down the weapons from the walls!  The fool is mad!”

Zahra clutched at her father’s sleeve and pointed to a distant corner, where a tongue of flame was licking the dry woodwork and hangings.  Her eyes were flashing and her lips were parted; she bent forward, following the priest with eagerness.

“Allah be praised!” she breathed.  “He is a Man!”