Then there was a long silence.

Israel did not rest in Mequinez until sunset of that day.  Soon after sunrise he went out at the gate at which he had so lately entered, and no man showed him honour.  The black guard of the Shereef of Wazzan had gone off before him, chuckling and grinning in their disgust, and behind him his own little company of soldiers, guides, muleteers, and tentmen, who, like himself, had neither slept nor eaten, were dragging along in dudgeon.  The Kaid had turned them out of the town.

Later in the day, while Israel and his people lay sheltering within their tents on the plain of Sais by the river Nagar, near the tent-village called a Douar, and the palm-tree by the bridge, there passed them in the fierce sunshine two men in the peaked shasheeah of the soldier, riding at a furious gallop from the direction of Fez, and shouting to all they came upon to fly from the path they had to pass over.  They were messengers of the Sultan, carrying letters to the Kaid of Mequinez, commanding him to present himself at the palace without delay, that he might give good account of his stewardship, or else deliver up his substance and be cast into prison for the defalcations with which rumour had charged him.

Such was the errand of the soldiers, according to the country-people, who toiled along after them on their way home from the markets at Fez; and great was the glee of Israel’s men on hearing it, for they remembered with bitterness how basely the Kaid had treated them at last in his false loyalty and hypocrisy.  But Israel himself was too nearly touched by a sense of Fate’s coquetry to rejoice at this new freak of its whim, though the victim of it had so lately turned him from his door.  Miserable was the man who laid up his treasure in money-bags and built his happiness on the favour of princes!  When the one was taken from him and the other failed him, where then was the hope of that man’s salvation, whether in this world or the next?  The dungeon, the chain, the lash, the wooden jellab—­what else was left to him?  Only the wail of the poor whom he has made poorer, the curse of the orphan whom he has made fatherless, and the execration of the down-trodden whom he has oppressed.  These followed him into his prison, and mingled their cries with the clank of his irons, for they were voices which had never yet deserted the man that made them, but clamoured loud at the last when his end had come, above the death-rattle in his throat.  One dim hour waited for all men always, whether in the prison or in the palace—­one lonely hour wherein none could bear him company—­and what was wealth and treasure to man’s soul beyond it?  Was it power on earth?  Was it glory?  Was it riches?  Oh! glory of the earth—­what could it be but a will-o’-the-wisp pursued in the darkness of the night!  Oh! riches of gold and silver—­what had they ever been but marsh-fire gathered in the dusk!  The empire of the world was evil, and evil was the service of the prince of it!