“The hand of Allah!” he cried; “no, no! not that! It was the hand of him that loved her best—the hand of her father!”
And muffling his head in his cloak he tottered slowly from the room.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE VENGEANCE OF MAIE
To those who looked after Agahr with pitying eyes a slave entered, announcing a messenger for David the Jew.
The little man hurried away to the next chamber, where, dimly lighted by a swinging lantern, stood the form of a girl whose face was concealed to the eyes by the folds of a dark mantle. But the eyes were enough for David. He knew her at once.
“Halima!” he exclaimed. “Vy do you seek Davit?”
The girl drew a small box from her cloak.
“The gift of Maie,” she said.
“Maie! Bud, dey tell me Maie iss dead.”
“Of that I know nothing,” answered the slave girl, all unmoved. “It is nevertheless her gift. I have been seeking you since before midnight, and but now discovered you were at the palace. Take the casket; and, mark me: here is the spring that opens it.”