“Of me? I shall not hinder thee, Licorice. I do not think it likely thou wouldst take it.”
“Ay de mi, canst thou not understand? I might as well leave a thief to take care of my gold carcanet as leave thee alone with Belasez. I shall come back to find the child gone off with some vile dog of a Christian, and thee tearing thy garments, like a blind, blundering bat as thou art.”
“Bats don’t tear their garments, wife.”
“They run their heads upon every stone they come across. And so dost thou.”
“Wife, dost thou not think we might speak out honestly like true men, and trust the All-Merciful with the child’s future?”
“Well, if ever I did see a lame, wall-eyed, broken-kneed old pack-ass, he was called Abraham the son of Ursel!”
And Licorice stood with uplifted hands, gazing on her lord and master in an attitude of pitying astonishment.
“I do believe, thou moon-cast shadow of a man, if Bruno de Malpas were to walk in and ask for her, thou wouldst just say, ‘Here she is, O my Lord: do what thou wilt with thy slave.’”
“I think, Licorice, it would break my heart. But we have let him break his for eighteen years. And if it came to breaking hers—What wicked thing did he do, wife, that we should have used him thus?”
“What! canst thou ask me? Did he not presume to lay unclean hands on a daughter of Israel, of whom saith the Holy One, ‘Ye shall not give her unto the heathen’?”