As the Mahdi entered the town a number of mountaineers in the Feddan were going through their feats of wonder-play before a multitude of excited spectators.  Two tribes, mounted on wild barbs, were charging in line from opposite sides of the square, some seated, some kneeling, some standing.  Midway across the market-place they were charging, horses at full gallop, firing their muskets, then reining in at a horse’s length, throwing their barbs on their haunches, wheeling round and galloping back, amid deafening shouts of “Allah!  Allah!  Allah!”

“Allah indeed!” cried the Mahdi, striding into their midst without fear.  “That is all the part that God plays in this land of iniquity and bloodshed.  Away, away!”

The people separated, and the Mahdi turned towards the Kasbah.  As he approached it, the lanes leading to the Feddan were being cleared for the mad antics of the Aissawa.  Before they saw him the fanatics came out in all the force of their acting brotherhood, a score of half-naked men, and one other entirely naked, attended by their high-priests, the Mukaddameen, three old patriarchs with long white beards, wearing dark flowing robes and carrying torches.  Then goats and dogs were riven alive and eaten raw; while women and children; crouching in the gathering darkness overhead looked down from the roofs and shuddered.  And as the frenzy increased among the madmen, and their victims became fewer, each fanatic turned upon himself, and tore his own skin and battered his head against the stones until blood ran like water.

“Fools and blind guides!” cried the Mahdi sweeping them before him like sheep.  “Is this how you turn the streets into a sickening sewer?  Oh, the abomination of desolation!  You tear yourselves in the name of God, but forget His justice and mercy.  Away!  You will have your reward.  Away!  Away!”

At the gate of the Kasbah he demanded to see the Kaid, and, after various parleyings with the guards and negroes who haunted the winding ways of the gloomy place, he was introduced to the Basha’s presence.  The Basha received him in a room so dark that he could but dimly see his face.  Ben Aboo was stretched on a carpet, in much the position of a dog with his muzzle on his forepaws.

“Welcome,” he said gruffly, and without changing his own unceremonious posture, he gave the Mahdi a signal to sit.

The Mahdi did not sit.  “Ben Aboo,” he said in a voice that was half choked with anger, “I have come again on an errand of mercy, and woe to you if you send me away unsatisfied.”

Ben Aboo lay silent and gloomy for a moment, and then said with a growl, “What is it now?”

“Where is the daughter of Ben Oliel?” said the Mahdi.

With a gesture of protestation the Basha waved one of the hands on which his dusky muzzle had rested.

“Ah, do not lie to me,” cried the Mahdi.  “I know where she is—­she is in prison.  And for what?  For no fault but love of her father, and no crime but fidelity to her faith.  She has sacrificed the one and abandoned the other.  Is that not enough for you, Ben Aboo?  Set her free.”