For long he lay stretched out upon the floor in a state of
half-consciousness. He could hear the mosquitos buzzing about his face,
he could hear, too, the sounds of life rise up from the street below;
but he was able to move neither arm nor leg, and his head seemed
fastened to the floor by immovable leaden weights. That his son was lost
was all he understood.
How long he lay there he scarcely knew, but it seemed to him weeks. At
last he heard footsteps on the stairs. He endeavoured vainly to raise
himself, and, though he strove to cry out, his tongue refused to frame
the words. Lying there, living and yet lifeless, he saw the door open
and Amos enter. The old man hesitated a moment, for the room was dark,
while Gregorio, who had easily recognised his visitor, lay impotent on
the floor. Before Amos could become used to the darkness the door again
opened, and Madam Marx entered with a lamp in her hand. Amos turned
to see who had followed him, and, in turning, his foot struck against
Gregorio’s body. Immediately, the woman crying softly, both visitors
knelt beside the sick man. A fierce look blazed in Gregorio’s eyes, but
the strong words of abuse that hurried through his brain would not be
said.
“He is very ill,” said Amos; “he has had a stroke of some sort.”
“Help me to carry him to my house,” sobbed the woman, and she kissed
the Greek’s quivering lip and pallid brow. Then rising to her feet, she
turned savagely on the Jew.
“It is your fault. It is you who have killed him.”
“Nay, madam; I had called here for my money, and I had a right to do so.
It has been owing for a long time.”
“No; you have killed him.”
“Indeed, I wished him well. I was willing to forgive the debt if he
would let me take the child.”
A horrid look of agony passed over Gregorio’s face, but he remained
silent and motionless. The watchers saw that he understood and that a
tempest of wrath and pain surged within the lifeless body. They
stooped down and carried him downstairs and across the road to the
Penny-farthing Shop. The Jew’s touch burned Gregorio like hot embers,
but he could not shake himself free. When he was laid on a bed in a
room above the bar, through the floor of which rose discordant sounds of
revelry, Amos left them. Madam Marx flung herself on the bed beside him
and wept.
Two days later Gregorio sat, at sunset, by Madam Marx’s side, on the
threshold of the cafe. He had recovered speech and use of limbs. With
wrathful eloquence he had told his companion the history of the terrible
night, and now sat weaving plots in his maddened brain.
Replying to his assertion that Amos was responsible, Madam Marx said:
“Don’t be too impetuous, Gregorio. Search cunningly before you strike.
Maybe your wife knows something.”
“My wife! Not she; she is with her Englishman. Amos has stolen the boy,
and you know it as well as I do. Didn’t he tell you he wanted the child?
I met him that night, and he told me if I did not pay I had only myself
to blame for the trouble that would fall on me.”
“Come, come, Gregorio, cheer up!” said the woman; for the Greek, with
head resting on his hands, was sobbing violently.
“I tell you, all I cared for in life is taken from me. But I will have
my revenge, that I tell you too.”
For a while they sat silent, looking into the street. At last Gregorio
spoke:
“My wife has not returned since that night, has she?”
“I have not seen her.”
“Well, I must see her; she can leave the Englishman now.”
Madam Marx laughed a little, but said nothing.
“There is Ahmed,” cried Gregorio, as a blue-clad figure passed on the
other side of the street. He beckoned to the Arab, who came across at
his summons.
“You seem troubled,” he said, as he looked into the Greek’s face; and
Gregorio retold the terrible story.
“You know nothing of all this?” he added, suspiciously, as his narrative
ended.
“Nothing.”
“My God! it is so awful I thought all the world knew of it. You often
nursed and played with the boy?”
“Ay, and fed him. We Arabs love children, even Christian children, and I
will help you if I can.”
“Why should Amos want the boy?” asked Madam Marx, as she put coffee and
tobacco before the guests.
“Because I owe him money, and he knew the loss of my son would be the
deadliest revenge. He will make my son a Jew, a beastly Jew. By God, he
shall not, he shall not!”
“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.”
“Amos made her a Jewess, eh?” And then, after a pause, Gregorio added:
“So we can depend on Ahmed. To-night I will win back my son or--”
“Or?” queried madam, tremblingly.
“Or Amos starts on his journey to hell. God, how my fingers itch to slay
him! The devil, the Jew devil!”