“I have heard that your people have strange customs,” he answered with a laugh, “but I think that even a spear-shaft would scarcely gain beauty from my wrinkled hide, and if anything, the eating of my flesh would make tradesmen and not warriors of your chiefs.  Well, let the jest pass, and listen.  King, in all my schemings one thought never crossed my mind, namely, that you were a man to suffer scruples to stand between you and the woman you would win.  You think that now she is a goddess?  Well, if that be so—­and it is not for me to say—­who could be a fitter mate for the greatest king upon the earth than a goddess from the heavens?  Take her, king Ithobal, take her, and this I promise you, that when your armies are encamped without the walls, the priests of El will absolve you of the crime of aspiring to the fair lips of Baaltis.”

“The lips of Baaltis,” broke in Ithobal; “do you think that I shall find them sweet when another man has rifled them?  Secret chambers are many yonder in the palace of the gods, and doubtless the Jew will find his way there.”

“Nay, King, for between these two I have indeed built a wall which cannot be climbed.  The worshipper of the Lord of Israel may not traffic with the high-priestess of Ashtoreth.  Moreover, I shall bring it about that ere long Prince Aziel’s face is set seawards.”

“Do that, and I will believe you, merchant, though it would be better if you could bring it about that his face was set earthwards, as I will if I can.  Well, this time I spare you, though be sure that if aught miscarry, you shall pay the price, how, I have told you.  Now I go to talk with these traders, these outlanders, of Zimboe.  Why do you wait?  You are dismissed and—­alive.”

Metem looked steadily at the tablets which he still held in his hand.

“I have heard,” he said humbly, “that the king Ithobal, the great king, always pays his debts, and as I—­an outlander—­shall be leaving Zimboe shortly under his safe conduct, I desire to close this small account.”

Ithobal went to the door of his tent and commanded that his treasurer should attend him, bringing money.  Presently he came, and at his lord’s bidding weighed out one hundred ounces of gold.

“You are right, Phoenician,” said Ithobal; “I always pay my debts, sometimes in gold and sometimes in iron.  Be careful that I owe you no more, lest you who to-day are paid in gold, to-morrow may receive the iron, weighed out in the fashion of which I have spoken.  Now, begone.”

Metem gathered up the treasure, and hiding it in his ample robe, bowed himself from the royal presence and out of the thorn-hedged camp.