“Anyhow,” said Israel, “my life among you is ended.  I set no store by place and power.  What does the English poet say, ’In the great hand of God I stand.’  Shakespeare—­oh, a mighty creature—­one who knew where the soul of a man lay.  But I forget, you’ve not lived in England.  Do you know I am to go there again, and to take my little daughter?  You remember her—­Naomi—­a charming girl.  She can see now, and hear, and speak also!  Yes for God has lifted His hand away from her, and I am going to be very happy.  Well, I must leave you, brothers.  The little one will be waiting.  I must not keep her too long, must I?  Peace, peace!”

Seeing his profound faith, no one dared to tell him the truth that was on every tongue.  A wave of compassion swept over all.  The deputation stood and watched him until he had sunk under the hill.

And now, being come thus near to home, Israel’s impatience robbed him of some of his happy confidence and filled him with fears.  He began to think of all the evil chances that might have befallen Naomi.  His absence had been so long, and so many things might have happened since he went away.  In this mood he tried to run.  It was a poor uncertain shamble.  At nearly every step the body lurched for poise and balance.

At last he came to a point of the path from which, as he knew, the little rush-covered house ought to be seen.  “It’s yonder,” he cried, and pointed it out to himself with uplifted finger.  The sun was sinking, and its strong rays were in his face.  “She’s there, I see her!” he shouted.  A few minutes later he was near the door.  “No, my eyes deceived me,” he said in a damp voice.  “Or perhaps she has gone in—­perhaps she’s hiding—­the sweet rogue!”

The door was half open; he pushed it and entered the house.  “Naomi!” he called in a voice like a caress.  “Naomi!” His voice trembled now.  “Come to me, come, dearest; come quickly, quickly, I cannot see!” He listened.  There was not a sound, not a movement.  “Naomi!” The name was like a gurgle in his throat.  There was a pause, and then he said very feebly and simply, “She’s not here.”

He looked around, and picked up something from the floor.  It was a slipper covered with mould.  As he gazed upon it a change came over his face.  Dead?  Was Naomi dead?  He had thought of death before—­for himself, for others, never for Naomi.  At a stride the awful thing was on him.  Death!  Oh, oh!

With a helpless, broken, blind look he was standing in the middle of the floor with the slipper in his hand, when a footstep came to the door.  He flung the slipper away and threw open his arms.  Naomi—­it must be she!

It was Fatimah.  She had come in secret, that the evil news of what had been done at the Kasbah and the Mosque might not be broken to Israel too suddenly.  He met her with a terrible question.  “Where is she laid?” he said in a voice of awe.

Fatimah saw his error instantly.  “Naomi is alive,” she said, and, seeing how the clouds lifted off his face, she added quickly, “and well, very well.”