The old man’s voice was drowned in great shouts of “Ben Aboo!” “To Ben Aboo!” “Why wait for the judges?” “To the Kasbah!” “The Kasbah!”

But a second voice came piercing through the boom and clash of those waves of sound, and it was thin and shrill as the cry of a pea-hen.  Naomi knew this voice also—­it was the voice of Judah ben Lolo, the elder of the synagogue, who would have been sitting among the three-and-twenty-judges but that he was a usurer also.

“Why go to the Kaid?” said the voice like a peahen.  “Does the Basha love this Israel ben Oliel?  Has he of late given many signs of such affection?  Bethink you, brothers, and act wisely!  Would not Ben Aboo be glad to have done with this servant who has been so long his master?  Then why trouble him with your grievance?  Act for yourselves, and the Kaid will thank you!  And well may this Israel ben Oliel praise the Lord and worship Him, that He has not put it into the hearts of His people to play the game of breaker of tyrants by the spilling of blood, as the races around them, the Arabs and the Berbers, who are of a temper more warm by nature, must long ago have done, and that not unjustly either, or altogether to the displeasure of a Kaid who is good and humane and merciful, and has never loved that his poor people should be oppressed.”

At this word, though it made pretence to commend the temperance of the crowd, the fury broke out more loudly than before.  “Away with the man!” “Away with him!” rang out on every side in countless voices, husky and clear, gruff and sharp, piping and deep.  Not a voice of them all called for mercy or for patience.

While the anger of the people surged and broke in the air, a third voice came through the tumult, and Naomi knew it, for it was the harsh voice of Reuben Maliki, the silversmith and keeper of the poor-box.

“And does God,” said Reuben, “any more than Ben Aboo—­blessings on his life!—­love that His people should be oppressed?  How has He dealt with this Israel ben Oliel?  Does He stand steadfastly beside him, or has His hand gone out against him?  Since the day he came here, five-and-twenty years ago, has God saved him or smitten him?  Remember Ruth, his wife, how she died young!  Remember her father, our old Grand Rabbi, David ben Ohana, how the hand of the Lord fell upon him on the night of the day whereon his daughter was married!  Remember this girl Naomi, this offspring of sin, this accursed and afflicted one, still blind and speechless!”

Then the voices of the crowd came to Naomi’s ears like the neigh of a breathless horse.  Fatimah had laid hold of her gown and was whispering.  “Come!  Let us away!” But Naomi only clutched her hand and trembled.

The harsh voice of Reuben Maliki rose in the air again.  “Do you say that the Lord gave him riches?  Behold him!—­he swallowed them down, but has he not vomited them up?  Examine him!—­that which he took by extortions has he not been made to restore?  Does God’s anger smoke against him?  Answer me, yes or no!”