“We must find him and save him,” said the woman.
“He will never be a Jew. That is not what Amos wants your son for; there are plenty of Jews.” Ahmed spoke quietly.
“They sacrifice children,” he continued, after a moment’s pause; “surely you know that, and if you would save your boy there is not much time to lose.”
Gregorio trembled at Ahmed’s words. He wondered how he could have forgotten the common report, and his fingers grasped convulsively the handle of his knife.
“Let us go to Amos,” he said, speaking the words with difficulty, for he was choking with fear for his son.
“Wait,” answered the Arab; “I will come again to-night and bring some friends with me, two men who will be glad to serve you. We Arabs are not sorry to strike at the Jews; we have our own wrongs. Wait here till I come.”
“But what will you do?” asked Madam Marx, looking anxiously on the man she loved, though her words were for the Arab.
“Gregorio will ask for his son. If the old man refuses to restore him, or denies that he has taken him, then we will know the worst, and then—”
Gregorio’s knife-blade glittered in the sunset rays, as he tested its sharpness between thumb and finger. The Arab watched with a smile. “We understand one another,” he said. There was no need to finish the description of his plan. With a solemn wave of his hand he left the cafe.
“That man Ahmed,” said Madam Marx, “has a grudge against Amos. It dates from the bombardment, and he had waited all these years to avenge himself. I believe it was the loss of his wife.”