All this time he had given little thought to Naomi, where she stood by his side, but in her darkness and silence she touched the silks and looked serious, and the slippers and looked perplexed, and now at the jingling of the jewels she stretched out her hand and took one of them from her father’s fingers, and feeling it, and finding it to be a necklace, she clasped it about her neck and laughed.

At the sound of her laughter Israel shook like a reed.  It brought back the memory of the day when she danced to her mother’s death, decked in that same necklace and those same ornaments.  More on this head Israel could not think and hold to his purpose, so he took the jewels from Naomi’s neck and returned them to the casket, and hastened away with it to a man to whom he designed to sell it.

This was no other than Reuben Maliki, keeper of the poor box of the Jews; for as well as a usurer he was a silversmith, and kept his shop in the Sok el Foki.  Israel was moved to go to this person by the remembrance of two things, of which either seemed enough for his preference—­first, that he had bought the jewels of Reuben in the beginning, and next, the Reuben had never since ceased to speak of them in Tetuan as priceless beyond the gems of Ethiopia and the gold of Ophir.

But when Israel came to him now with the casket that he might buy, he eyed both with looks of indifference, though it was more dear to his covetous and revengeful heart that Israel should humble himself in his need, and bring these jewels, than almost any other satisfaction that could come to it.

“And what is this that you bring me?” said Reuben languidly.

“A case of jewels,” said Israel, with a downward look.

“Jewels? umph! what jewels?”

“My poor wife’s.  You know them, Reuben See!”

Israel opened the casket.

“Ah, your wife’s.  Umph! yes, I suppose I must have seen them somewhere.”

“You have seen them here, Reuben.”

“Here?—­do you say here?”

“Reuben, you sold them to me eighteen years ago.”

“Sold them to you?  Never.  I don’t remember it.  Surely you must be mistaken.  I can never have dealt in things like these.”

Reuben had taken the casket in his hands, and was pursing up his lips in expressions of contempt.

Israel watched him closely.  “Give them back to me,” he said; “I can go elsewhere.  I have no time for wrangling.”

Reuben’s lip straightened instantly.  “Wrangling?  Who is wrangling, brother?  You are too impatient, Sidi.”

“I am in haste,” said Israel.

“Ah!”

There was an ominous silence, and then in a cold voice Reuben said, “The things are well enough in their way.  What do you wish me to do with them?”

“To buy them,” said Israel.

“Buy them?”

“Yes.”

“But I don’t want them.”

“Are they worth your money?—­you don’t want that either.”