The sun was sinking, and its strong rays were in his face."She's there, I see her!" he shouted.A few minutes later he was near the door.
"No, my eyes deceived me," he said in a damp voice."Or perhaps she has gone in--perhaps she's hiding--the sweet rogue!"The door was half open; he pushed it and entered the house."Naomi!"he called in a voice like a caress."Naomi!" His voice trembled now.
"Come to me, come, dearest; come quickly, quickly, I cannot see!"He listened.There was not a sound, not a movement."Naomi!"The name was like a gurgle in his throat.There was a pause, and then he said very feebly and simply, "She's not here."He looked around, and picked up something from the floor.
It was a slipper covered with mould.As he gazed upon it a change came over his face.Dead? Was Naomi dead? He had thought of death before--for himself, for others, never for Naomi.
At a stride the awful thing was on him.Death! Oh, oh!
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.