The crowd were moved, were softened, were half-convinced. They turned, in silence, towards their santon; and Almamen did not shrink from the appeal; but stood forth, confronting the king.
“King of Granada!” he cried aloud, “behold thy friend—thy prophet! Lo! I assure you victory!”
“Hold!” interrupted Boabdil; “thou hast deceived and betrayed me too long! Moors! know ye this pretended santon? He is of no Moslem creed. He is a hound of Israel who would sell you to the best bidder. Slay him!”
“Ha!” cried Almamen, “and who is my accuser?”
“Thy servant-behold him!” At these words the royal guards lifted their torches, and the glare fell redly on the death-like features of Ximen.
“Light of the world! there be other Jews that know him,” said the traitor.
“Will ye suffer a Jew to lead ye, O race of the Prophet?” cried the king.
The crowd stood confused and bewildered. Almamen felt his hour was come; he remained silent, his arms folded, his brow erect.
“Be there any of the tribes of Moisa amongst the crowd?” cried Boabdil, pursuing his advantage; “if so, let them approach and testify what they know.” Forth came—not from the crowd, but from amongst Boabdil’s train, a well-known Israelite.
“We disown this man of blood and fraud,” said Elias, bowing to the earth; “but he was of our creed.”