“God bless you!” he said, as well as he could for the two angels, the angel of love and the angel of death, were struggling at his throat.

Israel looked steadily at the Mahdi for a moment more, and then said very softly—­

“Death may come to me now; I am ready.  Farewell, my father!  I tried to do your bidding.  Do you remember your watchword?  But God has given me rewards for repentance—­see,” and he turned his eyes towards the eyes of Naomi with a wasting yet sunny smile.

“God is good,” said the Mahdi; “lie still, lie still,” and he laid his cool hand on Israel’s forehead.

“I am leaving her to you,” said Israel; “and you alone can protect her of all men living in this land accursed of God, for God’s right arm is round you.  Yes, God is good.  As long as you live you will cherish her.  Never was she so dear to me as now, so sweet, so lovable, so gentle.  But you will be good to her.  God is very good to me.  Guard her as the apple of your eye.  It will reward you.  And let her think of me sometimes—­only sometimes.  Ah! how nearly I shipwrecked all this!  Remember!  Remember!”

“Hush, hush!  Do not increase your pains,” said the Mahdi.  “Are you feeling better now?”

“I am feeling well,” said Israel, “and happy—­so happy.”

The sun had set, and the swift twilight was passing into night, when another messenger arrived from Tetuan.  It was Ali’s old Taleb, shedding tears for his boy, but boasting loudly of his brave death.  He had heard of it from the black guards themselves.  After Ali fell he lived a moment, though only in unconsciousness.  The boy must have thought himself back at Israel’s side, “I’ve done it, father,” he said; “he’ll never hurt you again.  You won’t drive me away from you any more; will you, father?”

They could see that Israel had heard the story.  The eyes of the dying are dry, but well they knew that the heart of the man was weeping.

The Taleb came with the idea that Israel also was gone, for a rumour to that effect had passed through the town.  “El hamdu l’Illah!” he cried, when he saw that Israel was still alive.  But then he remembered something, and whispered in the Mahdi’s farther ear that a vast concourse of Moors and Jews including his own vast fellowship was even then coming out to bury Israel, thinking he was dead.

Israel overheard him and smiled.  It seemed as if he laughed a little also.  “It will soon be true,” he muttered under his breath, that came so quick.  And hardly had he spoken when a low deep sound came from the distance.  It was the funeral wail of Israel ben Oliel.

Nearer and nearer it came, and clearer and more clear.  First a mighty bass voice:  “Allah Akbar!” Again another and another voice:  “Allah Akbar!” and then the long roar of a vast multitude:  “Al—­l—­lah-u-kabar!” Finally a slow melancholy wail, rising and falling on the darkening air:  “There is no God but God, and Mohammed is the Prophet of God.”