“Daughter!  My dearest!  My darling.”

Only this, nothing more!  Only one sweet word of all the unspoken tenderness which, like a river without any outlet, had been seventeen years dammed up in his breast.  But no, it could not be.  He must not speak lest her face should frown and her arms be drawn away.  To see that would break his heart.  Nevertheless, he wrestled with the temptation.  It was terrible.  He dared not risk it.  So he sat on the bed in silence, hardly moving, scarcely breathing—­a dust-laden man in a ragged jellab, holding Naomi in his arms.

It was still the month of Ramadhan, and the sun was but three hours set.  In the fondak called El Oosaa, a group of the town Moors, who had fasted through the day, were feasting and carousing.  Over the walls of the Mellah, from the direction of the Spanish inn at the entrance to the little tortuous quarter of the shoemakers, there came at intervals a hubbub of voices, and occasionally wild shouts and cries.  The day was Wednesday, the market-day of Tetuan, and on the open space called the Feddan many fires were lighted at the mouths of tents, and men and women and children—­country Arabs and Barbers—­were squatting around the charcoal embers eating and drinking and talking and laughing, while the ruddy glow lit up their swarthy faces in the darkness.  But presently the wing of night fell over both Moorish town and Mellah; the traffic of the streets came to an end; the “Balak” of the ass-driver was no more heard, the slipper of the Jew sounded but rarely on the pavement, the fires on the Feddan died out, the hubbub of the fondak and the wild shouts of the shoemakers’ quarter were hushed, and quieter and more quiet grew the air until all was still.

At the coming of peace Naomi’s fears seemed to abate.  Her clinging arms released their hold of her father’s neck, and with a trembling sigh she dropped back on to the pillow.  And in this hour of stillness she would have slept; but even while Israel was lifting up his heart in thankfulness to God, that He was making the way of her great journey easy out of the land of silence into the land of speech, a storm broke over the town.  Through many hot days preceding it had been gathering in the air, which had the echoing hollowness of a vault.  It was loud and long and terrible.  First from the direction of Marteel, over the four miles which divide Tetuan from the coast, came the warning which the sea sends before trouble comes to the land—­a deep moan as of waters falling from the sky.  Next came the moan of the wind down the valley that opens on the gate called the Bab el Marsa, and along the river that flows to the port.  Then came the roll of thunder, like a million cannons, down the gorges of the Reef mountains and across the plain that stretches far away to Kitan.  Last of all, the black clouds of the sky emptied themselves over the town, and the rain fell in floods on the roof of the house and on the pavement of the patio, and leapt up again in great loud drops, making a noise to the ear like to the tramp, tramp, tramp of a hidden multitude.  Thus sound after sound broke over the darkness of the night in a thousand awful voices, now near, now far, now loud, now low, now long, now short, now rising, now falling, now rushing, now running—­a mighty tumult and a fearsome anarchy.