So far from flying from Morocco when things conspired together to beat him down, Israel looked about with an equal mind for the means of settling there.

His opportunity came early.  The Governor, either by qualm of conscience or further freak of selfishness, got him the place of head of the Oomana, the three Administrators of Customs at Tangier.  He held the post six months only, to the complete satisfaction of the Kaid, but amid the muttered discontent of the merchants and tradesmen.  Then the Governor of Tetuan, a bigger town lying a long day’s journey to the east, hearing of Israel that as Ameen of Tangier he had doubled the custom revenues in half a year, invited him to fill an informal, unofficial, and irregular position as assessor of tributes.

Now, it would be a long task to tell of the work which Israel did in his new calling:  how he regulated the market dues, and appointed a Mut’hasseb, a clerk of the market, to collect them—­so many moozoonahs for every camel sold, so many for every horse, mule, and ass, so many floos for every fowl, and so many metkals for the purchase and sale of every slave; how he numbered the houses and made lists of the trades, assessing their tribute by the value of their businesses—­so much for gun-making, so much for weaving, so much for tanning, and so on through the line of them, great and small, good and bad, even from the trades of the Jewish silversmiths and the Moorish packsaddle-makers down to the callings of the Arab water-carriers and the ninety public women.

All this he did by the strict law and letter of the Koran, which entitled the Sultan to a tithe of all earnings whatsoever; but it would not wrong the truth to say that he did it also by the impulse of a sour and saddened heart.  The world had shown no mercy to him, and he need show no mercy to the world.  Why talk of pity?  It was only a name, an idea a mocking thought.  In the actual reckoning of life there was no such name as pity.  Thus did Israel justify himself in all his dealings, whatever their severity and the rigour wherewith they wrought.

And the people felt the strong hand that was on them, and they cursed it.

“Ya Allah!  Allah!” the Moors would cry.  “Who is this Jew—­this son of the English—­that he should be made our master?”

They muttered at him in the streets, they scowled upon him, and at length they insulted him openly.  Since his return from England he had resumed the dress of his race in his country—­the long dark gabardine or kaftan, with a scarf for girdle, the black slippers, and the black skull-cap.  And, going one day by the Grand Mosque, a group of the beggars; who lay always by the gate, called on him to uncover his feet.

“Jew!  Dog!” they cried, “there is no god but God!  Curses on your relations!  Off with your slippers!”

He paid no heed to their commands, but made straight onward.  Then one blear-eyed and scab-faced cripple scrambled up and struck off his cap with a crutch.  He picked it up again without a look or a word, and strode away.  But next morning, at early prayers, there was a place empty at the door of the mosque.  Its accustomed occupant lay in the prison at the Kasbah.