Gregorio found, on entering his house, that his wife was already in bed. He went into the tiny kitchen and saw a plate of macaroni ready for his supper. He tried to eat some, but it stuck in his throat. He took a bottle of cheap Cretan wine from a shelf and drank from it; but the wine was sour, and he spat it from his mouth with a curse.  
Taking up the lamp, he went into the bedroom. His wife was fast asleep with the boy in her arms. For a moment a smile flickered round Gregorio’s mouth as he looked at them. Then he took off his boots and his coat, blew out the lamp, and lay beside them. He was very tired after his long tramp in the hot streets, but he could not sleep. Angrily he tossed from side to side and closed his eyes tightly; but it was no good, sleep would not come.
 
At midnight he heard a call to prayer chanted from the minaret of a tiny mosque in the neighbourhood. The muezzin’s voice irritated him. He did not wish to pray, and he did want to sleep. He swore that it was insanity for these fools of Mohammedans to declare that prayer was better than sleep.
 
Then the thoughts that had agitated him during the walk returned to him. The Rue des Soeurs was still noisy with merry-makers, and it seemed to him that if he could only join them he would be happy. But he had no money, and one can do nothing without money!
 
Then there came back to him the face of the Englishman he had seen talking to the violinist of the Paradiso. He hated the man because he was ugly and rich. These English were all rich, and yet they seemed to him a miserable race, mere ignorant bullies. He remembered how often he had come to the help of the English travellers who filled Egypt. Why had he, he asked himself, for the sake of a miserable reward, prevented them being cheated, when he, with all his talents, was condemned to starve? Even his child, he thought, would grow to hate him if he remained poor. He must get money. Amos would have to lend him some. The Jews were unpopular among the Greeks; it were wise to keep on good terms with them, as Amos would find out.
 
At last he fell asleep.
 
In the morning his troubles began again. There was no coffee, and only a little Arab bread, and when that was done they must starve if they could not get some money. Gregorio tore off a bit of bread and ate it slowly, looking at his wife, who sat weeping beside him.
 
“I shall go to Amos,” he said, firmly.
 
“Ah, yes, to Amos,” Xantippe answered quietly; “but it will be no good.”
 
“Why no good?”
 
“Because you owe him money, and he will give you no more till he is paid.”
 
“But we cannot pay him. He must let us have some. If not—” and Gregorio raised threatening.
 
His wife smiled sadly and kissed him.
 
“You will not frighten Amos, my love. When I told him the child had been ill, he only laughed.”
 
“When was that?”
 
“Yesterday.”
 
“Then he had been here?”
 
“He came last night to ask for his money. I told him we had none, and he laughed and said we must get some. He told me I might get some if I cared to. He said I could make, oh, so much!”
 
Gregorio scowled savagely. “The filthy Jew! he said that? Never, never, never!”
 
“But we must get some money,” the woman sobbed, “if only for our son’s sake, Gregorio. But not that way?”
 
“No, not that way,” he replied, savagely.
 
“When shall you go to him?”
 
“Now.”
 
And taking up his hat he rushed into the street. He was terribly angry, not so much at the purport of the Jew’s speech as at the man who made it. He loathed the Jews, and felt insulted when spoken to by one; it was a terrible matter to ask this man for help, but it was intolerable that his wife should suffer insult. And yet the child must be fed. Yes, she had said that, and it was true. They must make sacrifices for the child.
 
He soon reached the Jew’s house, and was shown by a richly clad servant into the room where Amos sat. Amos was an old man, tall and strong, with a long bushy beard, in which his fingers continually played; and his eyes were sharp and brilliant and restless, a strange contrast to his stately bearing and measured movements. He rose from his cushions as Gregorio entered, and saluted him courteously, motioning him to a seat. Then, having resettled himself, he clapped his hands together smartly and ordered the servant who answered the summons to bring in coffee and pipes.
 
Gregorio was rather overawed at the luxury he saw around him, and he felt the stern-looking, polite old man would be a difficult person to deal with. As he puffed at his tube he considered carefully what words he should use.
 
For some time neither spoke, but Amos was the first to break the silence.
 
“You heard I was at your house last night, and so have come to pay me?”
 
“Yes, I heard you were at my house and that you wanted to be paid. You are a rich man, and I am poor.”
 
“Nay, I am not rich; they lie who say I am rich.”
 
“It is twenty pounds I owe you, is it not?”
 
“Yes, twenty pounds. It is a large sum, and I have dealt generously with you. I am now in need of it myself.”
 
“I am a poor man.”
 
“You have not the money, eh, my friend?”
 
“I have not the money. But I will pay you if you will lend me some more. I shall be successful now; only twenty pounds more.”
 
Amos appeared unmoved at the tremor in Gregorio’s voice. His eyes rested coldly on the face of his client, while the unfortunate Greek continued to speak rapidly of his troubles and hopes. He smiled sarcastically as Gregorio spoke of the certainty of making his fortune at Benhur, and remained quite unmoved at the story of the sufferings of a woman and child from hunger and want.
 
“Your wife is beautiful,” was all he answered when Gregorio paused for a moment. At these words, however, he half rose from his place and clinched his hands savagely. But he sank back again with the remembrance that a show of temper would not advance his cause.
 
“Very beautiful,” he answered, chokingly; “would you see her starve?”
 
“She is not my wife,” said Amos, quietly. Then he continued slowly, pausing at intervals to puff out a cloud of smoke from his mouth:
 
“You have owed me this money a long time. I want it, and I will have it. Even in Egypt there is law. You do not like us Jews, but the law will protect me as long as I am rich enough to buy justice. In three days you will pay me this money. I have been generous to you; now I will be generous no longer. If I am not paid I will take measures to recover my loss. You will sleep in the streets like the Arabs, my friend; but the weather is warm. It is early summer, so you will scarcely feel the exposure. In three days you will come and pay me.”
 
“But how am I to get the money? If you would lend me only a few pounds I would repay you all I owe.”
 
“Already you owe me more than you can pay. You can make money. You are married. These Christian women are worse than the Arabs; do I not see them as I come home in the evening from my business? It is not right to borrow and not repay. I need my money. How can I have my coffee and my pipe unless I have money?”
 
Gregorio listened with growing anger, and finally rose from his seat and shook his fist in the old man’s face.
 
“You shall be paid,” he shouted, “you shall be paid!”
 
“Anger is useless, my friend.”
 
And as Gregorio left the house Amos smiled and stroked his beard. “Truly,” he thought, “these Christians hate us, but we have them in our power. It is pleasant to be hated and yet to know that it is to us they must cringe when they are in need; and it is very pleasant to refuse. My friend Gregorio is not happy now that he is struggling in my grasp.”
 
As for Gregorio, he wandered away toward the harbour, kicking savagely at the refuse scattered along the pavement. He did not know how to set about earning the requisite sum. It was no good applying to the hotels or tourist agencies, for there were few visitors in the city and dragomen were therefore not needed.
 
His friends were too poor to help him, and the consul was unable to do much for him, there were so many poor Greeks who wanted help. Meanwhile there was no food at home and no drink; even the necessaries of life were lacking.
 
On arriving at his home he found his wife and child huddled in a corner crying for food. They ran toward him as he entered, but the hope in their faces quickly faded at the sight of him.
 
“It’s no good,” Gregorio growled; “Amos refuses to advance a piastre and says I must pay all I owe in three days.”
 
“It is impossible to sleep when one is hungry,” said Gregorio that night to his wife, who lay awake, weeping, beside him.