The prison was dark and noisome, some sixty feet long by half as many broad, supported by arches resting on rotten pillars, lighted only by narrow clefts at either hand, exuding damp from its walls, dropping moisture from its roof, its air full of vermin, and its floor reeking of filth.  And only less horrible than the prison itself was the condition of the prisoners.  Nearly all wore iron fetters on their legs, and some were shackled to the pillars.  At one side a little group of them—­they were Shereefs from Wazzan—­were conversing eagerly and gesticulating wildly; and at the other side a larger company—­they were Jews from Fez—­were languidly twisting palmetto leaves into the shape of baskets.  Four Berbers at the farther end were playing cards, and two Arabs that were chained to a column near the door squatted on the ground with a battered old draughtboard between them.  From both groups of players came loud shouts and laughter and a running fire of expostulation and of indignant and sarcastic comment.  Down went the cards with triumphant bangs, and the moves of the “dogs” were like lightning.  First a mocking voice:  “You call yourself a player!  There!—­there!—­there!” Then a meek, piping tone:  “So—­so—­verily, you are my master.  Well, let us praise Allah for your wisdom.”  But soon a wild burst of irony:  “You are like him who killed the dog and fell into the river.  See! thus I teach you to boast over your betters!  I shave your beard!  There!—­there!—­and there!”

In the middle of the reeking floor, so placed that the thin shaft of light from the clefts at the ends might fall on them—­a barber-doctor was bleeding a youth from a vein in the arm.  “We’re all having it done,” he was saying.  “It’s good for the internals.  I did it to a shipload of pilgrims once.”  A wild-looking creature sat in a corner—­he was a saint, a madman, of the sect of the Darkaoa—­rocking himself to and fro, and crying “Allah!  All-lah!  All-l-lah!  All-l-l-lah!” Near to this person a haggard old man of the Grega sect was shaking and dancing at his prayers.  And not far from either a Mukaddam, a high-priest of the Aissa, brotherhood—­a juggler who had travelled through the country with a lion by a halter—­was singing a frantic mockery of a Christian hymn to a tune that he had heard on the coast.

Such was the scene of Israel’s imprisonment, and such were the companions that were to share it.  There had been a moment’s pause in the clamour of their babel as the door opened and Israel entered.  The prisoners knew him, and they were aghast.  Every eye looked up and every mouth was agape.  Israel stood for a time with the closed door behind him.  He looked around, made a step forward, hesitated, seemed to peer vainly through the darkness for bed or mattress, and then sat down helplessly by a pillar on the ground.

A young negro in a coarse jellab went up to him and offered a bit of bread.  “Hungry, brother?  No?” said the youth.  “Cheer up, Sidi!  No good letting the donkey ride on your head!”