Oliel was a self-centred and silent man, absorbed in getting and spending, always taking care to have much of the one, and no more than he could help of the other.  Sara was a nervous and sensitive little woman, hungering for communion and for sympathy.  She got little of either from her husband, and grew to be as silent as he.  With the people of the country of her adoption, whether Jews or Moors, she made no headway.  She never even learnt their language.

Two years passed, and then a child was born to her.  This was Israel, and for many a year thereafter he was all the world to the lonely woman.  His coming made no apparent difference to his father.  He grew to be a tall and comely boy, quick and bright, and inclined to be of a sweet and cheerful disposition.  But the school of his upbringing was a hard one.  A Jewish child in Morocco might know from his cradle that he was not born a Moor and a Mohammedan.

When the boy was eight years old his father married a second wife, his first wife being still alive.  This was lawful, though unusual in Tangier.  The new marriage, which was only another business transaction to Oliel, was a shock and a terror to Sara.  Nevertheless, she supported its penalties through three weary years, sinking visibly under them day after day.  By that time a second family had begun to share her husband’s house, the rivalry of the mothers had threatened to extend to the children, the domesticity of home was destroyed and its harmony was no longer possible.  Then she left Oliel, and fled back to England, taking Israel with her.

Her father was dead, and the welcome she got of her half-brothers was not warm.  They had no sympathy with her rebellion against her husband’s second marriage.  If she had married into a foreign country, she should abide by the ways of it.  Sara was heartbroken.  Her health had long been poor, and now it failed her utterly.  In less than a month she died.  On her deathbed she committed her boy to the care of her brothers, and implored them not to send him back to Morocco.

For years thereafter Israel’s life in London was a stern one.  If he had no longer to submit to the open contempt of the Moors, the kicks and insults of the streets, he had to learn how bitter is the bread that one is forced to eat at another’s table.  When he should have been still at school he was set to some menial occupation in the bank at Holborn Bars, and when he ought to have risen at his desk he was required to teach the sons of prosperous men the way to go above him.  Life was playing an evil game with him, and, though he won, it must be at a bitter price.