Satisfied with this explanation of Israel’s conduct, Ben Aboo waited for no further assurance, but fell to a wild outburst of mingled prayers and protests.  “O Giver of Good to all!  O Creator!  It is Abd er-Rahman again.  Ya Allah!  Ya Allah!  Or else his rapacious satellites—­his thieves, his robbers, his cut-throats!  That bloated Vizier!  That leprous Naib es-Sultan!  Oh, I know them.  Bismillah!  They want to fleece me.  They want to squeeze me of my little wealth—­my just savings—­my hard earnings after my long service.  Curse them!  Curse their relations!  O Merciful!  O Compassionate!  They’ll call it arrears of taxes.  But no, by the beard of my father, no!  Not one feels shall they have if I die for it.  I’m an old soldier—­they shall torture me.  Yes, the bastinado, the jellab—­but I’ll stand firm!  Allah!  Allah!  Bismillah!  Why does Abd er-Rahman hate me?  It’s because I’m his brother—­that’s it, that’s it!  But I’ve never risen against him.  Never, never!  I’ve paid him all!  All!  I tell you I’ve paid everything.  I’ve got nothing left.  You know it yourself, Israel, you know it.”

Thus, in the crawling of his fear he cried with maudlin tears, pleaded and entreated and threatened fumbling meantime the beads of his rosary and tramping nervously to and fro about the patio until he drew up at length, with a supplicating look, face to face with Israel.  And if anything had been needed to fix Israel to his purpose of withdrawing for ever from the service of Ben Aboo, he must have found it in this pitiful spectacle of the Kaid’s abject terror, his quick suspicion, his base disloyalty, and rancorous hatred of his own master, the Sultan.

But, struggling to suppress his contempt, Israel said, speaking as slowly and calmly as at first, “Basha, have no fear; I have not sold myself to Abd er-Rahman.  It is true that I was at Fez—­but not to see the Sultan.  I have never seen him.  I am not his spy.  He knows nothing of me.  I know nothing of him, and what I am doing now is being done for myself alone.”

Hearing this, and believing it, for, liars and prevaricators as were the other men about him, Israel had never yet deceived him, Ben Aboo made what poor shift he could to cover his shame at the sorry weakness he had just betrayed.  And first he gazed in a sort of stupor into Israel’s steadfast face; and then he dropped his evil eyes, and laughed in scorn of his own words, as if trying to carry them off by a silly show of braggadocio, and to make believe that they had been no more than a humorous pretence, and that no man would be so simple as to think he had truly meant them.  But, after this mockery, he turned to Israel again, and, being relieved of his fears, he fell back to his savage mood once more, without disguise and without shame.

“And pray, sir,” said he, with a ghastly smile, “what riches have you gathered that you are at last content to hoard no more?”

“None,” said Israel shortly.