He dared not risk it.

So he sat on the bed in silence, hardly moving, scarcely breathing--a dust-laden man in a ragged jellab, holding Naomi in his arms.
It was still the month of Ramadhan, and the sun was but three hours set.
In the fondak called El Oosaa, a group of the town Moors, who had fasted through the day, were feasting and carousing.

Over the walls of the Mellah, from the direction of the Spanish inn at the entrance to the little tortuous quarter of the shoemakers, there came at intervals a hubbub of voices, and occasionally wild shouts and cries.

The day was Wednesday, the market-day of Tetuan, and on the open space called the Feddan many fires were lighted at the mouths of tents, and men and women and children--country Arabs and Barbers--were squatting around the charcoal embers eating and drinking and talking and laughing, while the ruddy glow lit up their swarthy faces in the darkness.

But presently the wing of night fell over both Moorish town and Mellah; the traffic of the streets came to an end; the "Balak" of the ass-driver was no more heard, the slipper of the Jew sounded but rarely on the pavement, the fires on the Feddan died out, the hubbub of the fondak and the wild shouts of the shoemakers' quarter were hushed, and quieter and more quiet grew the air until all was still.
At the coming of peace Naomi's fears seemed to abate.