Issachar threw his arms round Eliav's neck.
"Well, sit down," said Eliav, disengaging himself and pointing to the place of honour by his side—a low, half-circular stone chair. "You see, we are feasting here, enjoying your gifts without you. Thank you for remembering us and sending alms to us poor beggars. I dare not offer you anything: you Egyptians think our Jewish food unclean!"
"Why do you say such things, brother?" Issachar began, but broke off, looking down and flushing crimson. He took a piece off the dish.
"Why, he is eating! He really is, he doesn't despise our food!" Eliav cried, with the same unkind smile.
Aviezer also smiled into his beard, and Naaman anxiously looked round at them all with his kind eyes.
"Perhaps you will have a drink, too?" Eliav asked.
Issachar moved up his cup and Eliav filled it from a jug with pomegranate wine, blood-red and thick as oil—also his brother's present. He poured some out for himself, also.
"Your health, Iserker!"
He swallowed it at one gulp.
"Splendid wine this! I have never drunk anything like it."