“Pish! Did the shiksah keep it? Even if she meant to do—and who can trust a Gentile?—was she there, day and night? Did Emendant not tell thee that he saw her at the Coronation?”
“Well, yes, he did,” admitted Abraham, with evident reluctance.
“And had she Belasez there, tied to her apron-string, with a bandage over her eyes? Son of Ursel, wilt thou never open thine? Who knows how many young gallants may have chattered to her then? ‘When the cat is away—’ thou knowest. Not that the shiksah was much of a cat when she was there, I’ll be bound. Dost thou not care if the child be stolen from us? And when they have stolen her heart and her soul, they may as well take her body. It won’t make much difference then.”
“Licorice—”
Belasez listened more intently than ever. There was a world of tender regret in Abraham’s voice, and she knew that it was not for Licorice.
“Licorice,”—he said, and stopped.
“Go on,” responded her mother sharply, “unless thou wert after some foolery, as is most likely.”
“Licorice, hast thou forgotten that Sabbath even, when thou broughtest home—”
“I wish thou wouldst keep thy tongue off names. I have as good a memory as thou, though it is not lined like thine with asses’ skin.”
“And dost thou remember what thou toldest me that she said to thy reproaches?”