Ben Aboo might never hear that the people were at large, for Ali was to forbid them to return to Tetuan, and Shawan was sixty weary miles away.  And if he ever did hear, Israel himself would be there to bear the brunt of his displeasure, but Ali the instrument of his design, must be far away.  For when the gates of the prison had been opened, and the prisoners had gone free, Ali was neither to come back to Tetuan nor to remain in Morocco, but with the money that Israel gave him out of the last wreck of his fortune he was to make haste to Gibraltar by way of Ceuta, and not to consider his life safe until he had set foot in England.

“England!” cried Ali.  “But they are all white men there.”

“White-hearted men, my lad,” said Israel; “and a Jewish man may find rest for the sole of his foot among them.”

That same day the black boy bade farewell to Israel and to Naomi.  He was leaving them for ever, and he was broken-hearted.  Israel was his father, Naomi was his sister, and never again should he set his eyes on either.  But in the pride of his perilous mission he bore himself bravely.

“Well, good-night,” he said, taking Naomi’s hand, but not looking into her blind face.

“Good-night,” she answered, and then, after a moment, she flung her arms about his neck and kissed him.  He laughed lightly, and turned to Israel.

“Good-night, father,” he said in a shrill voice.

“A safe journey to you, my son,” said Israel; “and may you do all my errands.”

“God burn my great-grandfather if I do not!” said Ali stoutly.

But with that word of his country his brave bearing at length broke down, and drawing Israel aside, that Naomi might not hear, he whispered, sobbing and stammering, “When—­when I am gone, don’t, don’t tell her that I was black.”

Then in an instant he fled away.

“In peace!” cried Israel after him.  “In peace! my brave boy, simple, noble, loyal heart!”

Next morning Israel, leaving Naomi at home, set off for the Kasbah, that he might carry out his great resolve to give up the office he held under the Kaid.  And as he passed through the streets his head was held up, and he walked proudly.  A great burden had fallen from him, and his spirit was light.  The people bent their heads before him as he passed, and scowled at him when he was gone by.  The beggars lying at the gate of the Mosque spat over their fingers behind his back, and muttered “Bismillah!  In the name of God!” A negro farmer in the Feddan, who was bent double over a hoof as he was shoeing a bony and scabby mule, lifted his ugly face, bathed in sweat, and grinned at Israel as he went along.  A group of Reefians, dirty and lean and hollow-eyed, feeding their gaunt donkeys, and glancing anxiously at the sky over the heads of the mountains, snarled like dogs as he strode through their midst.  The sky was overcast, and the heads of the mountains were capped with mist.  “Balak!” sounded