That is not telling a falsehood, she thought; but when Israel, with a cry of joy which was partly pain, flung his arms about her, she saw what she had done.

“Where is she?” he cried.  “Bring her, you dear, good soul.  Why is she not here?  Lead me to her, lead me!”

Then Fatimah began to wring her hands.  “Alas!” she said, weeping, “that cannot be.”

Israel steadied himself and waited.  “She cannot come to you, and neither can you go to her.” said Fatimah.  “But she is well, oh! very well.  Poor child, she is at the Kasbah—­no, no, not the prison—­oh no, she is happy—­I mean she is well, yes, and cared for—­indeed, she is at the palace—­the women’s palace—­but set your mind easy—­she—­”

With such broken, blundering words the good woman blurted out the truth, and tried to deaden the blow of it.  But the soul lives fast, and Israel lived a lifetime in that moment.

“The palace!” he said in a bewildered way.  “The women’s palace—­the women’s—­” and then broke off shortly.  “Fatimah, I want to go to Naomi,” he said.

And Fatimah stammered, “Alas! alas! you cannot, you never can—­”

“Fatimah,” said Israel, with an awful calm.  “Can’t you see, woman, I have come home?  I and Naomi have been long parted.  Do you not understand?—­I want to go to my daughter.”

“Yes, yes,” said Fatimah; “but you can never go to her any more.  She is in the women’s apartments—­”

Then a great hoarse groan came from Israel’s throat.

“Poor child, it was not her fault.  Listen,” said Fatimah; “only listen.”

But Israel would hear no more.  The torrent of his fury bore down everything before it.  Fatimah’s feeble protests were drowned.  “Silence!” he cried.  “What need is there for words?  She is in the palace!—­that’s enough.  The women’s palace—­the hareem—­what more is there to say?”

Putting the fact so to his own consciousness, and seeing it grossly in all its horror, his passion fell like a breaking in of waters.  “O God!” he cried, “my enemy casts me into prison.  I lie there, rotting, starving.  I think of my little daughter left behind alone.  I hasten home to her.  But where is she?  She is gone.  She is in the house of my enemy.  Curse her! . . . .  Ah! no, no; not that, either!  Pardon me, O God; not that, whatever happens!  But the palace—­the women’s palace.  Naomi!  My little daughter!  Her face was so sweet, so simple.  I could have sworn that she was innocent.  My love! my dove!  I had only to look at her to see that she loved me!  And now the hareem—­that hell, and Ben Aboo—­that libertine!  I have lost her for ever!  Yet her soul was mine—­I wrestled with God for it—­”

He stopped suddenly, his face became awfully discoloured, he dropped to his knees on the floor, lifted his eyes and his hands towards heaven, and cried in a voice at once stern and heartrending, “Kill her, O God!  Kill her body, O my God, that her soul may be mine again!”