“Selam!  M’barak!  Abd el Kader!  Abd el Kareem!” shouted the Shereef’s black guard to the sleepy gate-keepers.  They had come thus far in Israel’s honour, and would not return to Wazzan until they had seen him housed within.

From the other side of the gate, through the mist and the gloom, came yawns and broken snores and then snarls and curses.  “Burn your father!  Pretty hubbub in the middle of the night!”

“Selam!” shouted one of the black guard.  “You dog of dogs!  Your father was bewitched by a hyena!  I’ll teach you to curse your betters.  Quick! get up,—­or I’ll shave your beard.  Open! or I’ll ride the donkey on your head!  There!—­and there!—­and there again!” and at every word the butt of his long gun rang on the old oaken gate.

“Hamed el Wazzani!” muttered several voices within.

“Yes,” shouted the Shereef’s man.  “And my Lord Israel of Tetuan on his way to the Sultan, God grant him victory.  Do you hear, you dogs?  Sidi Israel el Tetawani sitting here in the dark, while you are sleeping and snoring in your dirt.”

There was a whispered conference on the inside, then a rattle of keys, and then the gate groaned back on its hinges.  At the next moment two of the four gatemen were on their knees at the feet of Israel’s horse, asking forgiveness by grace of Allah and his Prophet.  In the meantime, the other two had sped away to the Kasbah, and before Israel had ridden far into the town, the Kaid—­against all usage of his class and country—­ran and met him—­afoot, slipperless, wearing nothing but selham and tarboosh, out of breath, yet with a mouth full of excuses.

“I heard you were coming,” he panted—­“sent for by the Sultan—­Allah preserve him!—­but had I known you were to be here so soon—­I—­that is—­”

“Peace be with you!” interrupted Israel.

“God grant you peace.  The Sultan—­praise the merciful Allah!” the Kaid continued, bowing low over Israel’s stirrup—­“he reached Fez from Marrakesh last sunset; you will be in time for him.”

“God will show,” said Israel, and he pushed forward.

“Ah, true—­yes—­certainly—­my lord is tired,” puffed the Kaid, bowing again most profoundly.  “Well, your lodging is ready—­the best in Mequinez—­and your mona is cooking—­all the dainties of Barbary—­and when our merciful Abd er-Rahman has made you his Grand Vizier—­”

Thus the man chattered like a jay, bowing low at nigh every word, until they came to the house wherein Israel and his people were to rest until sunset; and always the burden of his words was the same—­the Sultan, the Sultan, the Sultan, and Abd er-Rahman, Abd er-Rahman!

Israel could bear no more.  “Basha,” he said “it is a mistake; the Sultan has not sent for me, and neither am I going to see him.”

“Not going to him?” the Kaid echoed vacantly.

“No, but to another,” said Israel; “and you of all men can best tell me where that other is to be found.  A great man, newly risen—­yet a poor man—­the young Mahdi Mohammed of Mequinez.”