With a helpless, broken, blind look he was standing in the middle of the
floor with the slipper in his hand, when a footstep came to the door. He
flung the slipper away and threw open his arms. Naomi--it must be she!

It was Fatimah. She had come in secret, that the evil news of what had
been done at the Kasbah and the Mosque might not be broken to Israel too
suddenly. He met her with a terrible question. "Where is she laid?" he
said in a voice of awe.

Fatimah saw his error instantly. "Naomi is alive," she said, and, seeing
how the clouds lifted off his face, she added quickly, "and well, very
well."

That is not telling a falsehood, she thought; but when Israel, with a
cry of joy which was partly pain, flung his arms about her, she saw what
she had done.

"Where is she?" he cried. "Bring her, you dear, good soul. Why is she
not here? Lead me to her, lead me!"

Then Fatimah began to wring her hands. "Alas!" she said, weeping, "that
cannot be."

Israel steadied himself and waited. "She cannot come to you, and neither
can you go to her." said Fatimah. "But she is well, oh! very well.
Poor child, she is at the Kasbah--no, no, not the prison--oh no, she
is happy--I mean she is well, yes, and cared for--indeed, she is at the
palace--the women's palace--but set your mind easy--she--"