“Whither are you going?” said Habeebah.
“To my father,” Naomi began. “He is in prison; they say he is starving; I was taking food to him, but I am lost, I don’t know my way, and besides—”
“The very thing!” cried Habeebah.
Habeebah had her own little scheme. It was meant to win emancipation at the hands of her master, and paradise for her soul when she died. Naomi, who was a Jewess, was to turn Muslima. That was all. Then her troubles would end, and wondrous fortune would descend upon her, and her father who was in prison would be set free.
Now, religion was nothing to Naomi; she hardly understood what it meant. The differences of faith were less than nothing, but her father was everything, and so she clutched at Habeebah’s bold promises like a drowning soul at the froth of a breaker.
“My father will be let out of prison? You are sure—quite sure?” she asked.
“Quite sure,” answered Habeebah stoutly.
Naomi’s hopes of ever reaching her father were now faint, and her poor little stock of eggs and bread looked like folly to her new-born worldliness.
“Very well,” she said. “I will turn Muslima.”