'What place is this?' he muttered, the sight of the gold stinging his senses to life.

'It is a grave,' said Musa, in a hushed and tender voice. 'And these are sacred things. Sacred to the dead, and to the gods.'

He laughed; his laugh was hard and low, and hurt her.

'The place is good,' he said once more. 'Is there food in it?'

'There is no food. But I will bring you some at morning; some bread at least.'

'And a knife. Bring me a knife.'

She hesitated.

'I will bring you bread and wine.'

'Bring me a knife.'

'But you will kill some one?'

'What of that? I will not kill you if you keep faith.'

'I did not mean that. I am not afraid.'

'Bring me a knife, if you are not afraid.'

'I am not.'

'Who knows of this place?'

'Not any one; only I know, and a little goatherd.'

'That is well. Go get me the bread; I am sick with hunger.'

'I cannot; it is miles off that I live, but at daybreak I will be here.'