“See!” said one of the bearers, withdrawing the cloak from the huge body.  Then pointing to the sword which still transfixed it, he added, “and learn what strength heaven gives to the arms of princes.”

Such as the guests as were near enough rose to look at the grizzly sight, then turned to offer their congratulations to the conqueror, but there was one of them—­the king Ithobal—­who offered none; indeed, as his eyes fell upon the face of the corpse, they grew alight with rage.

“What ails you, King?  Are you jealous of such a blow?” asked Sakon, watching him curiously.

“Speak no more of that thrust, I pray you,” said Aziel, “for it was due to the weight of the man rushing on the sword, which after he was dead I could not find the power to loosen from his breast-bone.”

“Then I will do you that service, Prince,” sneered Ithobal, and, setting his foot upon the breast of the corpse, with a sudden effort of his great frame, he plucked out the sword and cast it down upon the table.

“Now, one might think,” said Aziel, flushing with anger, “that you, King, who do a courtesy to a man of smaller strength, mean a challenge.  Doubtless, however, I am mistaken, who do not understand the manners of this country.”

“Think what you will, Prince,” answered the chieftain, “but learn that he who lies dead before us by your hand—­as you say—­was no slave to be killed at pleasure, but a man of rank, none other, indeed, than the son of my mother’s sister.”

“Is it so?” replied Aziel, “then surely, King, you are well rid of a cousin, however highly born, who made it his business to ravish maidens from their homes.”

By way of answer to these words Ithobal sprang from his seat again, laying hand upon his sword.  But before he could speak or draw it, the governor Sakon addressed him in a cold and meaning voice:—­

“Of your courtesy, King,” he said, “remember that the prince here is my guest, as you are, and give us peace.  If that dead man was your cousin, at least he well deserved to die, not at the hand of one of royal blood, but by that of the executioner, for he was the worst of thieves—­a thief of women.  Now tell me, King, I pray you, how came your cousin here, so far from home, since he was not numbered in your retinue?”

“I do not know, Sakon,” answered Ithobal, “and if I knew I would not say.  You tell me that my dead kinsman was a thief of women, which, in Phoenician eyes, must be a crime indeed.  So be it; but thief or no thief, I say that there is a blood feud between me and the man who slew him, and were he great Solomon himself, instead of one of fifty princelets of his line, he should pay bitterly for the dead.  To-morrow, Sakon, I will meet you before I leave for my own land, for I have words to speak to you.  Till then, farewell!”—­and rising, he strode down the hall, followed by his officers and guard.

*****

The sudden departure of king Ithobal in anger was the signal for the breaking up of the feast.