after a draft of rare, long-mellowed wine.
"Rubies?"
"No," answered Gissing in a whisper, "Rose-emeralds! The Arabs call it the Wrath of Allah. . . the Wrath of Allah! It has a history, that string of stones. . . too long to tell you all now. It came from the East, the far East, in ancient times. . . long before the Arabs got hold of it."
"And you. . . where did you pick it up?" asked Volk, his black eyes boring into the shifting eyes of his companion. "From. . . from. . . North Africa. . . the desert."
"So!" responded Volk. "And the clasp?"
"I never discovered," said Gissing. "It's not part of the original string, of course. I've never seen a black stone like it before, it's cut in the shape of a camel because the stones belong now to a secret society called the Black Camels. My God!. . . the Black Camels!" was Gissing's despairing whisper.
Volk retired to the back of his den, and remained there for a long time, examining the jewels and testing them, while the other man waited muttering and shivering by the counter.
"They seem to be genuine," was Volk's verdict at last.
"Genuine!" Gissing's voice cracked on a high note of hysteria. "Would I go through hell for a string of glass beads? They're worth more than you or any man in this city can pay. They're beyond all price! There's nothing like them in the whole world, I tell you! They date back to the days of Tyre and Sidon, and the period when the Phenicians built Tarsh-ish, and owned silver mines in Spain. These stories were brought by them from Syria, and passed from their keeping to king after king. Now they belong to the Black Camels and their leader"
"Who is he?"
"No names—not even here! I see his face everywhere. . . I hear his voice! He is a ruler in the desert. . . ruler of a terrible race in the desert. Their stronghold is a vast walled city, built of salt, and black with age. That string of stones was the glory of his people."
"But who are his people?" persisted the Jew.
"Touaregg Arabs. . . the scum of the desert. . . outlaws, murderers, robbers, bandits of every description, who have banded themselves together and call themselves the Black Camels because death walks ever at their side. The desert city is their headquarters, but their followers are everywhere. They are a very strong, very terrible secret society—followers of Zoroaster—fire-worshippers!"
Volk stared blankly and unbelievingly at this fantastic story. Silence fell in the little dusty shop. The owner of the voice outside had gone off with a last parting curse, and there was a lull in the roar of the traffic. Only the bubbling flicker of the lamp-flame overhead was audible.
"That clasp means danger. . . it is a symbol of death!" Gissing continued in a whisper. "Death to any one who violates the sanctuary of the jewels! Death to those who touch the Wrath of Allah with profane hands! Death to me. . . to you. . . to every one, I tell you!"
A wild laugh rose to Gissing's lips, but the Jew clapped a dirty hand over his mouth.
"Death for you, if you like! For me, I am not afraid of your Arabs and your secret societies. Besides—what has the desert to do with us here?"
"The Black Camel is death, I tell you! Does not death walk here as well as in the desert?"
"And how did you manage to get away with this?"
Gissing's eyes, which were fixed in unwilling, passionate admiration on the
