s followed at their heels in tattered greasy
rags, a group of Jews went by them barefoot and a knot of bedraggled
renegades leaning against the walls of the prison doffed the caps from
their dishevelled heads and bowed.

That day, while the poor people of the town fasted according to the
ordinance of the Ramadhan, Israel's little company of Muslimeen--guests
in the house of the descendants of the Prophet--were, by special
Shereefian dispensation, permitted as travellers to eat and drink at
their pleasure. And before sunset, but at the verge of it, Israel and
his men started on their journey afresh, going out of the town, with
the Shereef's black bodyguard riding before them for guide and badge of
honour, through the dense and noisome market-place, where (like a clock
that is warning to strike) a multitude of hungry and thirsty people with
fierce and dirty faces, under a heavy wave of palpitating heat, and amid
clouds of hot dust, were waiting for the sound of the cannon that should
proclaim the end of that day's fast. Water-carriers at the fountains
stood ready to fill their empty goats' skins, women and children sat on
the ground with dishes of greasy soup on their knees and balls of grain
rolled in their fingers, men lay about holding pipes charged with keef,
and flint and tinder to light them, and the mooddin himself in the
minaret stood looking abroad (unless he were blind) to where the red sun
was lazily sinking under the plain.

Israel's soul sickened within him, for well he knew that, lavish as were
the honours that were shown him, they were offered by the rich out of
their selfishness and by the poor out of their fear. While they thought
the Sultan had sent for him, they kissed his foot who desired no homage,
and loaded him with presents who needed no gifts. But one word out of
his mouth, only one little word, one other name, and what then of this
lip-service, and what of this mock-honour!

Two days later Israel and his company reached before dawn the snake-like
ramparts of Mequinez the city of walls. And toiling in the darkness over
the barren plain and the belt of carrion that lies in front of the town,
through the heat and fumes of the fetid place, and amid the furious
barks of the scavenger dogs which prowl in the night around it, they
came in the grey of morning to the city gate over the stream called the
Father of Tortoises. The gate was closed, and the night police that kept
it were snoring in their rag