'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.'
