“Who is he?” asked Ben Abir with pardonable impatience.
“Menahem Cordosa,” breathed the slave, betraying a delicacy of feeling slaves are not credited with. Cordosa grew faint, and was caught in the arms of Ben Abir.
“Menahem Cordosa an assassin!” mourned the stricken parent. “It is well that it ended as it did,” added Cordosa, having recovered his composure. “Take your hoard, friend, and may thy house prosper.”
“Dost thou remember to have ever seen this heap of coin?” asked Ben Abir, seeing Ibraeem’s eyes fascinated by the shining pile.
“That is the gold we saw that Friday eve before thy tent,” replied Ibraeem.
“Yes, Ibraeem, and then I told thee that what is to be will be. This all goes to our house, thine not less than mine, faithful Ibraeem, who shall live to the end of thy days with the Crœsus of Yemen,” said the grateful Ben Abir.