Still the old eagerness betrayed itself in Israel’s weary manner as often as the door opened and fresh prisoners arrived.  Once it happened that before he uttered his usual question he saw that the newcomers were from Tetuan, and then his restlessness was feverish.  “When—­were you—­have you been of late—­” he stammered, and seemed unable to go farther.

But the Tetawanis knew and understood him.  “No,” said one in answer to the unspoken question; “Nor I,” said another; “Nor I,” said a third, “Nor I neither,” said a fourth, as Israel’s rapid eyes passed down the line of them.

He turned away without a word more, sat down by the pillar and looked vacantly before him while the new prisoners told their story.  Ben Aboo was a villain.  The people of Tetuan had found him out.  His wife was a harlot whose heart was a deep pit.  Between them they were demoralising the entire bashalic.  The town was worse than Sodom.  Hardly a child in the streets was safe, and no woman, whether wife or daughter, whom God had made comely, dare show herself on the roofs.  Their own women had been carried off to the palace at the Kasbah.  That was why they themselves were there in prison.

This was about a month after the coming of Israel to Shawan.  Then his reason began to unsettle.  It was pitiful to see that he was conscious of the change that was befalling him.  He wrestled with madness with all the strength of a strong man.  If it should fall upon him, where then would be his hope and outlook?  His day would be done, his night would be closed in, he would be no more than a helpless log, rolling in an ice-bound sea, and when the thaw came—­if it ever came—­he would be only a broken, rudderless, sailless wreck.  Sometimes he would swear at nothing and fling out his arms wildly, and then with a look of shame hang down his head and mutter, “No, no, Israel; no, no, no!”

Other prisoners arrived from Tetuan, and all told the same story.  Israel listened to them with a stupid look, seeming hardly to hear the tale they told him.  But one morning, as life began again for the day in that slimy eddy of life’s ocean, every one became aware that an awful change had come to pass.  Israel’s face had been worn and tired before, but now it looked very old and faded.  His black hair had been sprinkled with grey, and now it was white; and white also was his dark beard, which had grown long and ragged.  But his eye glistened, and his teeth were aglitter in his open mouth.  He was laughing at everything, yet not wildly, not recklessly, not without meaning or intention, but with the cheer of a happy and contented man.

Israel was mad, and his madness was a moving thing to look upon.  He thought he was back at home and a rich man still, as he had been in earlier days, but a generous man also, as he was in later ones.  With liberal hand he was dispensing his charities.

“Take what you need; eat, drink, do not stint; there is more where this has come from; it is not mine; God has lent it me for the good of all.”