As Ahmed had advised, Gregorio settled himself patiently to await the
summons. Madam would have liked to ask him many questions, and to have
extracted a promise from him not to risk his life in any mad enterprise
his accomplice might suggest. But though the Greek’s body seemed almost
lifeless, so quietly and immovably he rested on his chair, there was a
restless look in his eyes that told her how fiercely and irrepressibly
his anger burned. She knew enough of his race to know that no power on
earth could stop him striking for revenge. And she trembled, for
she knew also that directly he had begun to strike his madness would
increase, and that only sheer physical exhaustion would stay his hand.
Madam Marx was unhappy, and as she waited on her customers her eyes
rested continually on the Greek, who heeded her not. Once she carried
some wine to him, and he drank eagerly, spilling a few drops on the
floor first. “It’s like blood,” he muttered, and smiled. Madam hastily
covered his mouth with her trembling fingers.
Just before midnight Ahmed arrived with his two friends. Gregorio saw
them at once, and, calling them to him, they spoke together in low
voices for a few moments. There was little need for words, and soon,
scarcely noticed by the drinkers and gamblers, they passed out into the
street and walked slowly toward the Jew’s house. Ahmed rapidly repeated
the plan of action. When they reached the door they stood for a moment
before they woke the Arab, and these words passed between them:
“For a wife.”
“For a sister.”
“For a son.”
Gregorio then demanded admittance and led the way, followed by his three
friends. He had visited the house of Amos before, on less bloody but
less delightful business, and he did not hesitate, but strode on to
where he knew the Jew would be. His companions stood behind the curtain,
awaiting the signal.
Amos looked somewhat surprised at the Greek’s entrance, but motioned him
to a seat, and, as on the occasion of his first visit, clapped his hands
together as a signal that coffee and pipes were required.
“It is kind of you to come, for doubtless you wish to pay me what is
owing.”
“I wish to pay you.”
“That is well. I hope you are better again. I regretted to find you so
ill two nights ago.”
“I am better.”
The conversation ceased, for Gregorio was restless and his fingers
itched to do their work. Something in his manner alarmed Amos, for he
summoned in two of his servants and raised himself slightly, as if the
better to avoid an attack. But he continued to smoke calmly, watching
the Greek under his half-closed lids.
“I have another piece of business to settle with you.”
“Do you want to borrow more money because I refuse to lend you any?”
“No; it is you who have borrowed, and I have come to you to receive back
my own.”
“I fail to understand you.”
Gregorio tried to keep calm, but it was not possible. Rising to his
feet, he bent over the Jew and cried out:
“Give me back my son, you Jew dog!”
“Your son is not here.”
“You lie! by God, you lie! If he is not here you have murdered him.”
“Madman!” shouted Amos, as the Greek’s knife flashed from its sheath;
but before he or his servants could stay the uplifted arm the Jew sank
back among his cushions, wounded to the heart. With a shout of triumph
and a “Death of all Jews!” Gregorio turned savagely on the servants
and, reinforced by his companions, soon succeeded in slaying them. Then
leaving the dead side by side, the four men dashed through the house
seeking fresh victims. Ten minutes later they were in the street again,
dripping with the blood of women and men, for in their fury they had
killed every human being in the house.
Down the narrow native streets they pushed on quickly, hugging the
shadows, toward the Penny-farthing Shop. Madam Marx, her ears sharpened
by fear, heard them, admitted them by a side door, and led them quickly
to an upper room. Thither she carried water and clean garments, but
dared not ask any questions. Sick with anxiety, she re-entered the bar
and waited.
At length the murderers appeared and called for coffee, and Madam
Marx attended to their wants. In a few minutes the Egyptians left,
and Gregorio and she were alone. Coming near him, she placed her hand
timidly on his shoulder, and asked him, in a hoarse whisper, to tell her
what had happened.
“My son was not there.”
“Well?”
“Well, you can guess the rest. Not one person remains alive of that
devil’s household.”
Madam Marx gasped at the magnitude of the crime, and though her terrors
increased, her pride in the man capable of so tremendous revenge
increased also.
“What will happen to you?” she found voice to ask.
“Nothing. I must hide here. We were not seen. Besides, you remember the
last time a Greek murdered a Jew--it was at Port Said--the matter was
hushed up. Our consuls care as little for Jews as we do. My God, how
glad I am I killed him!”
His eyes were fixed on the street as he spoke, and suddenly he started
to his feet. Madam rose too, and clung to him. He pushed her roughly on
one side, while an evil smile played on his lips.
“By God, she shall come back now!”
“Who?”
“Xantippe. There is no need for her to live with the Englishman now. Our
son is dead and the Jew in hell. I will at least have my wife back.”
“She will not come.”
“She will come. By God, I will make her! I have tasted blood to-night,
and I am not a child to be treated with contempt. I say I will make her
come.”
“But if she refuses?”
“Then I will take care she does not go back to the Englishman.”
“You will--” but madam’s voice faltered. Gregorio read her meaning and
laughed a yes.
“But, Gregorio, think; you will be hanged for that. You wife is not a
Jewess.”
But Gregorio laughed again and strode into the street. He was mad with
grief and the intoxicating draughts of vengeance he had swallowed. He
strode across the road and mounted the stairs with steady feet. Madam
Marx followed him, weeping and calling on him to come back. As he
reached the door of his room she flung herself before him, but he
pushed her on one side with his feet and shut the door behind him as he
entered.
Lying on the threshold, she heard the bolt fastened, and knew the last
act of the tragedy was begun.