It was useless to think of the Muslimeen.  No believer would lend a hand to dig a grave for an unbeliever, or to make apparel for his dead.  It was just as idle to think of the Jews.  If the synagogue knew nothing of this burial, no Jew in the Mellah would be found so poor that he would have need to know more.  And of Christians of any sort or condition there were none in all Tetuan.

The gall of Israel’s heart rose to his throat.  Was he to be left alone with his dead wife?  Did his enemies wish to see him howk out her grave with his own hands?  Or did they expect him to come to them with bowed forehead and bended knee?  Either way their reckoning was a mistake.  They might leave him terribly and awfully alone—­alone in his hour of mourning even as they had left him alone in his hour of rejoicing, when he had married the dear soul who was dead.  But his strength and energy they should not crush:  his vital and intellectual force they should not wither away.  Only one thing they could do to touch him—­they could shrivel up his last impulse of sweet human sympathy.  They were doing it now.

When Israel had put matters to himself so, he despatched a message to the Governor at the Kasbah, and received, in answer, six State prisoners, fettered in pairs, under the guard of two soldiers.

The burial took place within the limit of twenty-four hours prescribed by Jewish custom.  It was twilight when the body was brought down from the upper room to the patio.  There stood the coffin on a trestle that had been raised for it on chairs standing back to back.  And there, too, sat Israel, with Naomi and little black Ali beside him.

Israel’s manner was composed; his face was as firm as a rock, and his dress was more costly than Tetuan had ever seen him wear before.  Everything that related to the burial he had managed himself, down to the least or poorest detail.  But there was nothing poor about it in the larger sense.  Israel was a rich man now, and he set no value on his riches except to subdue the fate that had first beaten him down and to abash the enemies who still menaced him.  Nothing was lacking that money could buy in Tetuan to make this burial an imposing ceremony.  Only one thing it wanted—­it wanted mourners, and it had but one.

Unlike her father, little Naomi was visibly excited.  She ran to and fro, clutched at Israel’s clothes and seemed to look into his face, clasped the hand of little Ali and held it long as if in fear.  Whether she knew what work was afoot, and, if she knew it, by what channel of soul or sense she learnt it, no man can say.  That she was conscious of the presence of many strangers is certain, and when the men from the Kasbah brought the roll of white linen down the stairway, with the two black women clinging to it, kissing its fringe and wailing over it, she broke away from Israel and rushed in among them with a startled cry, and her little white arms upraised.  But whatever her impulse, there was no need to check her.  The moment she had touched her mother she crept back in dread to her father’s side.