“My word is my bond, Phoenician,” answered the Levite haughtily.

Metem looked at him.  “Doubtless,” he said, “but you are old, and this is—­a rough country where accidents chance at times.  Still, the thing would read very ill, and, as you say, your word is your bond.  Only remember, Issachar, two hundred shekels, bearing interest at two shekels a month.  And now you are weary, holy Issachar, with plotting for the welfare of others, and so am I. Farewell, and good dreams to you.”

The Levite watched him go, muttering to himself, “Alas that I should have fallen to such traffic with a knave, but it is for your sake and for your soul’s sake, O Aziel my son.  I pray that Fate be not too strong for me and you.”

*****

For two days from this night Elissa lay almost senseless, and by many it was thought that she would die.  But when Metem saw her on the morning after she had been wounded, and noted that her arm was but little swollen, and had not turned black, he announced that she would certainly live, whatever the doctors of the city might declare.  Thereon Sakon, her father, and Aziel blessed him, but Issachar said nothing.

As the Phoenician was walking through the market-place early on the next day an aged black woman, whom he did not know, accosted him, saying that she had a message for his ear from the king Ithobal who was camped without the city and who desired to see the merchandise that he had brought with him from the coasts of Tyre.  Now Metem had already sold all his wares at a great advantage; still, as he would not neglect this opportunity of trade, he purchased others from his fellow merchants, and loading two camels with them, set out for the camp of Ithobal, riding on a mule.  By midday he had reached it.  The camp was pitched near water in a pleasant grove of trees, and on one of these not far from the tent of Ithobal Metem noted that there hung the body of a black dwarf.

“Behold the fate of him who shoots at the buck and hits the doe.  Well, I have always said that murder is a dangerous game, since blood calls out for blood,” thought Metem as he rode towards the tent.

At its door stood king Ithobal looking very huge and sullen in the sunlight.  Metem dismounted and prostrated himself obsequiously.

“May the King live for ever,” he said, “the great King, the King to whom all the other kings of the earth are as the little gods to Baal, or the faint stars to the sun.”

“Rise, and cease from flatteries,” said Ithobal shortly; “I may be greater than the other kings, but at least you do not think it.”

“If the king says so, so let it be,” replied Metem calmly.  “A woman yonder in the market-place told me that the king wished to trade for my merchandise.  So I have brought the best of it; priceless goods that which much toil I have carried hither from Tyre,” and he pointed to the two camels laden with the inferior articles which he had purchased, and began to read the number and description of the goods from his tablets.