Henceforth, during the fast, all true believers were to abstain from eating or drinking, and from all earthly pleasures, while the sun shone above the horizon and until the lamps at the mosques were lighted by the Imaums.  It is needless to say that the Moslems obviated this self-sacrifice by sleeping during the day as much as possible, giving the night up to all the proscribed indulgences of the interdicted season.

And now Mohammed’s hatred to the Jews began to show itself, and the awful persecution of the little Jewish band in Medina commenced.

Poor Dumah was one of the first to bring the rod of wrath upon himself.  When wandering down the street one day, not very long after the Battle of Bedr, he paused by a well, just as Mohammed, accompanied by his faithful Zeid, appeared in the way.  Dumah saw them and at once began to sing his thoughts in a wild, irregular lament.  His voice was peculiarly sweet and clear, and every word reached the ear of the enraged prophet.  The song was a weird lament over those slain at Bedr: 

    “They are fallen, the good are fallen,
    Low in the dust they are fallen;
    And their hair is steeped in blood;
    But the poison-wind shrieks above them,
    Sighing anon like the cushat,
    And breathing its curses upon him,
    Upon him, the chief of impostors. 
    As he passes the leaflets tremble,
    And the flowers shrink from his pathway;
    And the angels smile not upon him,
    For he maketh the widow and orphan;
    And the voice of Rachel riseth
    In mourning loud for her children. 
    And no comfort doth fall upon her. 
    Soft like the balm of Gilead.”

Turning to one of his followers, Mohammed commanded angrily: 

“Seize that singer!”

Dumah heard the exclamation, and was off like the wind, followed by two or three Moslems, each anxious to secure the victim first, and thus win the approval of the august Mohammed.

On, on, straight to the house of Amzi fled Dumah.  Bursting open the door, he rushed in, his long hair disordered, his face purple with running and his eyes wide with terror.

“Save me, Yusuf!  Save me, Amzi!” he cried.  “Mohammed will kill me!  Mohammed will kill me!”

Yusuf sprang to the door, and the poor fugitive threw himself at Amzi’s feet, clinging to his garments with his thin, white hands.

But the pursuers were already upon him.  Yusuf strove in vain to detain them, to reason with them.

“Can you not see he is a poor artless lad?  Can you not have mercy?” he cried.

“It is the order of the prophet of Allah!” was the response.

Yusuf resisted their entrance with all his might, but, unarmed as he was, he was quickly thrown down, and the terrified Dumah was dragged over his body and hurried off to be put in chains in a Moslem cell.

Amzi was distracted.  There seemed little hope for Dumah.  The small Jewish band then in Medina could not dare to cope with the overwhelming numbers of Moslems that swarmed in the streets.  If Dumah were delivered it must be by stratagem; and yet what stratagem could be employed?