was pale and quiet and
silent; she did not laugh according to her wont, and she had a look of
submission that was very touching to see.

"Now the holy saints have pity on the sweet jewel," said Fatimah. "How
long will she wait, poor darling?"

On the morning of the day following that her quiet had given place to
restlessness, and her pallor to a burning flush of the face. Her hands
were hot, her head was feverish, and her blind eyes were bloodshot.

It was now plain that the girl was ill, and that Israel's fears on
setting out from home had been right after all. And making his own
reckoning with Naomi's condition, Ali went off for the only doctor
living in Tetuan--a Spanish druggist living in the walled lane leading
to the western gate. This good man came to look at Naomi, felt her
pulse, touched her throbbing forehead, with difficulty examined her
tongue, and pronounced her illness to be fever. He gave some homely
directions as to her treatment--for he despaired of administering drugs
to such a one as she was--and promised to return the next day.

About the middle of that night Naomi became delirious. Fatimah stood
constantly by her bed, bathing her hot forehead with vinegar and water;
Habeebah slept in a chair at her feet; and Ali crouched in a corner
outside the door of her room.

The druggist came in the morning, according to his promise; but
there was nothing to be done, so he looked wise, wagged his head very
solemnly, and said, "I will come again after two days more, when the
fever must be near to its height, and bring a famous leech out of
Tangier along with me!"

Meantime, Naomi's delirium continued. It was gentle as her own
spirit tent there was this that was strange and eerie about her
unconsciousness--that whereas she had been dumb while her mind in its
dark cell must have been mistress of itself and of her soul, she spoke
without ceasing throughout the time of her reason's vanquishment. Not
that her poor tongue in its trouble uttered speech such as those that
heard could follow and understand, but only a restless babble of empty
sounds, yet with tones of varying feeling, sometimes of gladness,
sometimes of sorrow, sometimes of remonstrance, and sometimes of
entreaty.

All that night, and the next night also, the two black women sat
together by her bedside, holding each other's hands like little children
in great fear. Also Ali crouched again like a dog in the darkness
outside the door, listening in