On a certain afternoon in one of the palaces of Tyre a man might have been sitting in a long portico, or verandah as we should call it, which overlooked the Mediterranean, whose blue waters lapped the straight-scarped rock below—­for this house was in the island city, not in that of the mainland where most of the rich Syrians dwelt.

The man was old and very handsome.  His dark eyes were quick and full of fire, his nose was hooked like the beak of a bird of prey, his hair and beard were long and snowy white.  His robes also were rich and splendid, and over them, since at this season of the year even at Tyre it was cold, he wore a cloak of costly northern furs.  The house was worthy of its owner.  Built throughout of the purest marble, the rooms were roofed and panelled with sweet-smelling cedar of Lebanon, whence hung many silver lamps, and decorated by statuary and frescoes.  On the marble floors were spread rugs, beautifully wrought in colours, while here and there stood couches, tables and stools, fashioned for the most part of ebony from Libya, inlaid with ivory and pearl.

Benoni, the owner of all this wealth, having finished his business for that day—­the taking count of a shipload of merchandise which had reached him from Egypt—­had eaten his midday meal and now sought his couch under the portico to rest a while in the sun.  Reclining on the cushions, soon he was asleep; but it would seem that his dreams were unhappy—­at the least he turned from side to side muttering and moving his hands.  At last he sat up with a start.

“Oh, Rachel, Rachel!” he moaned, “why will you haunt my sleep?  Oh! my child, my child, have I not suffered enough?  Must you bring my sin back to me in this fashion?  May I not shut my eyes even here in the sunlight and be at peace a while?  What have you to tell me that you come thus often to stand here so strengthless and so still?  Nay, it is not you; it is my sin that wears your shape!” and Benoni hid his face in his hands, rocking himself to and fro and moaning aloud.

Presently he sprang up.  “It was no sin,” he said, “it was a righteous act.  I offered her to the outraged majesty of Jehovah, as Abraham, our father, would have offered Isaac, but the curse of that false prophet is upon me and mine.  That was the fault of Demas, the half-bred hound who crept into my kennel, and whom, because she loved him, I gave to her as husband.  Thus did he repay me, the traitor, and I—­I repaid him.  Ay!  But the sword fell upon two necks.  He should have suffered, and he alone.  Oh, Rachel, my lost daughter Rachel, forgive me, you whose bones lie there beneath the sea, forgive me!  I cannot bear those eyes of yours.  I am old, Rachel, I am old.”

Thus Benoni muttered to himself, as he walked swiftly to and fro; then, worn out with his burst of solitary, dream-bred passion, he sank back upon the couch.

As he sat thus, an Arab doorkeeper, gorgeously apparelled and armed with a great sword, appeared in the portico, and after looking carefully to see that his master was not asleep, made a low salaam.