'
'My father lived at Babylon,' said Caleb. 'Oh! name it not! name it
not!' exclaimed the old chieftain. 'Dark was the day that we lost that
second Zion! We were then also slaves to the Egyptian; but verily we
ruled over the realm of Pharaoh. Why, Caleb, Caleb, you who know all,
the days of toil, the nights restless as a love-sick boy's, which it has
cost your Prince to gain permission to grace our tribute-day with
the paltry presence of half-a-dozen guards; you who know all my
difficulties, who have witnessed all my mortifications, what would you
say to the purse of dirhems, surrounded by seven thousand scimitars?'
'Seven thousand scimitars!' 'Not one less; my father flourished one.'
'It was indeed a great day for Israel!' 'Nay, that is nothing. When old
Alroy was prince, old David Alroy, for thirty years, good Caleb, thirty
long years we paid _no_ tribute to the Caliph.'
'No tribute! no tribute for thirty years! What marvel then, my Prince,
that the Philistines have of late exacted interest?'
'Nay, that is nothing,' continued old Bostenay, unmindful of his
servant's ejaculations. 'When Moctador was Caliph, he sent to the same
Prince David, to know why the dirhems were not brought up, and David
immediately called to horse, and, attended by all the chief people, rode
to the palace, and told the Caliph that tribute was an acknowledgment
made from the weak to the strong to insure protection and support; and,
inasmuch as he and his people had garrisoned the city for ten years
against the Seljuks, he held the Caliph in arrear.
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