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 straps, and jingling on the pavement the carved ends of their silver knife-shields, they laughed and jested, and told dubious stories, and held doubtful discourse generally.  The talk turned on the distinction between great sins and little ones.  In the circle of the Sultan it was agreed that the great sins were two:  unbelief in the Prophet, whereby a man became Jew and dog; and smoking keef and tobacco, which no man could do and be of correct life and unquestionable Islam.  The atonement for these great sins were five prayers a day, thirty-four prostrations, seventeen chapters of the Koran, and as many inclinations.  All the rest were little sins; and as for murder and adultery, and bearing false witness—­well, God was Merciful, God was Compassionate, God forgave His poor weak children.

This led to stories of the penalises paid by transgressors of the great sins.  These were terrible.  Putting on a profound air, the Vizier, a fat man of fifty, told of how one who smoked tobacco and denied the Prophet had rotted piecemeal; and of how another had turned in his grave with his face from Mecca.  Then the Kaid of Fez, head of the Mosque and general Grand Mufti, led away with stories of the little sins.  These were delightful.  They pictured the shifts of pretty wives, married to worn out old men, to get at their youthful lovers in the dark by clambering in their dainty slippers from roof to roof.  Also of the discomfiture of pious old husbands and the wicked triumph of rompish little ladies, under pretences of outraged innocence.

Such, and worse, and of a kind that bears not to be told, was the conversation after supper of the roysterers in the Kasbah.  At every fresh story the laughter became louder, and soon the reserve and dignity of the Moor were left behind him and forgotten.  At length Ben Aboo, encouraged by the Sultan’s good fellowship, broke into loud praises of Naomi, and yet louder wails over the doom that must be the penalty of her apostasy; and thereupon Abd er-Rahman, protesting that for his part he wanted nothing with such a vixen, called on him to uncover her boasted charms to them.  “Bring her here, Basha,” he said; “let us see her,” and this command was received with tumultuous acclamations.

It was the beginning of the end.  In less than a minute more, while the rascals lolled over the floor in half a hundred different postures, with the hazy lights from the brass lamps and the glass candelabras on their dusky faces, their gleaming teeth, and dancing eyes, the messenger who had been sent for Naomi came back with the news that she was gone.  Then Ben Aboo rose in silent consternation, but his guests only laughed the louder, until a second messenger, a soldier of the guard, came running with more startling news.  Marteel had been bombarded by the Spaniards; the army of Marshall O’Donnel was under the walls of Tetuan, and their own people were opening the gates to him.