With a gesture of contempt Ebn Ezra made to leave, seeing an official of the Palace in the distance. Nahoum stopped him. “But, one moment ere thou dost thrust thy hand into the cockatrice’s den. Thou dost measure thyself against Nahoum? In patience and with care have I trained myself for the battle. The bulls of Bashan may roar, yet my feet are shod with safety. Thou wouldst go to Kaid and tell him thy affrighted tale. I tell thee, thou wilt not go. Thou hast reason yet, though thy blood is hot. Thou art to Claridge Pasha like a brother--as to his uncle before him, who furnished my father’s palace with carpets. The carpets still soften the fall of my feet in my father’s palace, as they did soften the fall of my brother’s feet, the feet of Foorgat Bey.” He paused, looking at Ebn Ezra with quiet triumph, though his eyes had ever that smiling innocence which had won David in days gone by. He was turning his words over on the tongue with a relish born of long waiting. “Come,” he said presently--“come, and I will give thee reason why thou wilt not speak with Kaid to-day. This way, effendi.” He led the other into a little room hung about with rugs and tapestry, and, going to the wall, he touched a spring. “One moment here, effendi,” he added quietly. The room was as it had been since David last stood within it. “In this room, effendi,” Nahoum said with cold deliberation, “Claridge Pasha killed my brother, Foorgat Bey.” Ebn Ezra fell back as though he had been struck. Swiftly Nahoum told him the whole truth--even to the picture of the brougham, and the rigid, upright figure passing through the night to Foorgat’s palace, the gaunt Mizraim piloting the equipage of death. “I have held my peace for my own reasons, effendi. Wilt thou then force me to speak? If thou dost still cherish Claridge Pasha, wilt thou see him ruined? Naught but ruin could follow the telling of the tale at this moment--his work, his life, all done. The scandal, the law, vengeance! But as it is now, Kaid may turn to him again; his work may yet go on--he has had the luck of angels, and Kaid is fickle. Who can tell?” Abashed and overwhelmed, Ebn Ezra Bey looked at him keenly. “To tell of Foorgat Bey would ruin thee also,” he said. “That thou knowest. The trick--would Kaid forgive it? Claridge Pasha would not be ruined alone.” “Be it so. If thou goest to Kaid with thy story, I go to Egypt with mine. Choose.” Ebn Ezra turned to go. “The high God judge between him and thee,” he said, and, with bowed head, left the Palace. CHAPTER XXXIV. NAHOUM DROPS THE MASK “CLARIDGE PASHA!” At the sound of the words, announced in a loud voice, hundreds of heads were turned towards the entrance of the vast salon, resplendent with gilded mirrors, great candelabra and chandeliers, golden hangings, and divans glowing with robes of yellow silk.