One day, about a month after his return from his journey, when he was near to the end of his substance, a message came to him that the followers of Absalam were perishing of hunger in their prison at Shawan.  Their relatives in Tetuan had found them in food until now, but the plague of the locust had fallen on the bread-winners, and they had no more bread to send.  Israel concluded that it was his duty to succour them.  From a just view of his responsibilities he had gone on to a morbid one.  If in the Judgment the blood of the people of Absalam cried to God against him, he himself, and not Ben Aboo, would be cast out into hell.

Israel juggled with his heart no further, but straightway began to take a view of his condition.  Then he saw, to his dismay, that little as he had thought he possessed, even less remained to him out of the wreck of his riches.  Only one thing he had still, but that was a thing so dear to his heart that he had never looked to part with it.  It was the casket of his dead wife’s jewels.  Nevertheless, in his extremity he resolved to sell it now, and, taking the key, he went up to the room where he kept it—­a closet that was sacred to the relics of her who lay in his heart for ever, but in his house no more.

Naomi went up with him, and when he had broken the seal from the doorpost, and the little door creaked back on its hinge, the ashy odour came out to them of a chamber long shut up.  It was just as if the buried air itself had fallen in death to dust, for the dust of the years lay on everything.  But under its dark mantle were soft silks and delicate shawls and gauzy haiks, and veils and embroidered sashes and light red slippers, and many dainty things such as women love.  And to him that came again after ten heavy years they were as a dream of her that had worn them when she was young that now was dead when she was beautiful that now was in the grave.

“Ah me, ah me!  Ruth!  My Ruth!” he murmured.  “This was her shawl.  I brought it from Wazzan. . . .  And these slippers—­they came from Rabat.  Poor girl, poor girl! . . . .  This sash, too, it used to be yellow and white.  How well I remember the first time she wore it!  She had put it over her head for a hood, pretending to be a Moorish woman.  But her brown curls fell out over her face, or she could not imprison them.  And then she laughed.  My poor dear girl.  How happy we were once in spite of everything!  It is all like yesterday.  When I think Ah no, I must think no more, I must think no more.”

Israel had little heart for such visions, so he turned to the casket of the jewels where it stood by the wall.  With trembling hands he took it and opened it, and here within were necklaces and bracelets, and rings and earrings, glistening of gold and rubies under their covering of dust.  He lifted them one by one over his wrinkled fingers, and looked at them while his eyes grew wet.

“Not for myself,” he murmured, “not for myself would I have sold them, not for bread to eat or water to drink; no, not for a wilderness of worlds!”