ab
passed by the opposite wall, and had almost gained the door ere Gregorio
found words.

"Who are you?"

"It is Ahmed," his wife answered, gently, placing her trembling hand
upon his shoulder; "he too has children."

Gregorio scowled and muttered, "An Arab," and in that murmur none of the
loathing was hidden that the pseudo-West bears for the East.

"The child is starving," said Ahmed. "I have saved the child; maybe some
day I shall save the father." And Ahmed slipped away before Gregorio
could answer him.

For a while neither he nor his wife spoke; they stood silent in the
moonlight. At last Gregorio asked huskily, "Have you had food?"

"Not to-day," was the answer; and the sweet voice was almost discordant
in its pathos as it continued, "nor drink, and but for Ahmed the boy had
died."

Gregorio could not answer; there was a lump in his throat that blocked
words, opening the gate for sobs. But he choked down his emotion with
an effort and busied himself about the room. Xantippe sat watching him
anxiously, smoothly with nervous fingers the covering of her son's bed.

As the night advanced the heat increased, and all that disturbed the
silence of the room was the echo of the streets. Gregorio walked to the
window and looked out. Below him he saw the jostling crowd of men and
women. These people, he thought, were happy, and two miserables only
dwelt in the city--his wife and himself. And whenever he asked himself
what was the cause of his misery, the answer was ever the same--poverty.
He glanced at his son, tossing uneasily in his bed; he looked at
his wife, pale and haggard in the moonlight; he remembered his
own sufferings all day long in the hot cruel streets, and he spoke
unsteadily:

"Xantippe?"

"Yes."

"I have thought over things."

"And I too."

"We are starving,--you are starving, and I am starving,--and all day
long I tramp these cursed streets, but gain nothing. So it will go on,
day in, day out. Not only we ourselves, but our son too must die. We
must save him."

"Yes," said Xantippe, quietly, repeating her husband's words as she
kissed the forehead of her child, "we must save him."

"There is only one way."

"Only one way," repeated Xantippe, dreamily. There was a pause, and
then, as though the words had grown to have a meaning to her that she
could not fathom, she queried, "What way, Gregorio?"

"That," he said, roughly, as he caught her by the wrist, and, dragging
her to the window