“They sacrifice children,” he continued, after a moment’s pause; “surely you know that, and if you would save your boy there is not much time to lose.”

Gregorio trembled at Ahmed’s words.  He wondered how he could have forgotten the common report, and his fingers grasped convulsively the handle of his knife.

“Let us go to Amos,” he said, speaking the words with difficulty, for he was choking with fear for his son.

“Wait,” answered the Arab; “I will come again to-night and bring some friends with me, two men who will be glad to serve you.  We Arabs are not sorry to strike at the Jews; we have our own wrongs.  Wait here till I come.”

“But what will you do?” asked Madam Marx, looking anxiously on the man she loved, though her words were for the Arab.

“Gregorio will ask for his son.  If the old man refuses to restore him, or denies that he has taken him, then we will know the worst, and then—­”

Gregorio’s knife-blade glittered in the sunset rays, as he tested its sharpness between thumb and finger.  The Arab watched with a smile.  “We understand one another,” he said.  There was no need to finish the description of his plan.  With a solemn wave of his hand he left the cafe.

“That man Ahmed,” said Madam Marx, “has a grudge against Amos.  It dates from the bombardment, and he had waited all these years to avenge himself.  I believe it was the loss of his wife.”

“Amos made her a Jewess, eh?” And then, after a pause, Gregorio added: 

“So we can depend on Ahmed.  To-night I will win back my son or—­”

“Or?” queried madam, tremblingly.

“Or Amos starts on his journey to hell.  God, how my fingers itch to slay him!  The devil, the Jew devil!”

X—­AT THE HOUSE OF AMOS

As Ahmed had advised, Gregorio settled himself patiently to await the summons.  Madam would have liked to ask him many questions, and to have extracted a promise from him not to risk his life in any mad enterprise his accomplice might suggest.  But though the Greek’s body seemed almost lifeless, so quietly and immovably he rested on his chair, there was a restless look in his eyes that told her how fiercely and irrepressibly his anger burned.  She knew enough of his race to know that no power on earth could stop him striking for revenge.  And she trembled, for she knew also that directly he had begun to strike his madness would increase, and that only sheer physical exhaustion would stay his hand.

Madam Marx was unhappy, and as she waited on her customers her eyes rested continually on the Greek, who heeded her not.  Once she carried some wine to him, and he drank eagerly, spilling a few drops on the floor first.  “It’s like blood,” he muttered, and smiled.  Madam hastily covered his mouth with her trembling fingers.