His prosperity counted for nothing against the open brand of God's
displeasure. The veriest muck-worm in the market-place spat out at sight
of him. Moor and Jew, Arab and Berber--they all despised him!

Nevertheless, the disaster which had befallen his house had not crushed
him. It had brought out every fibre of his being, every muscle of his
soul. He had quarrelled with God by reason of it, and his quarrel with
God had made his quarrel with his fellow-man the fiercer.

There was just one man in the town who found no offence in either form
of warfare. The more wicked the one and the more outrageous the other,
the better for his person.

It was the Governor of Tetuan. His name was El Arby, but he was known
as Ben Aboo, the son of his father. That father had been none other
than the late Sultan. Therefore Ben Aboo was a brother of Abd er-Rahman,
though by another mother, a negro slave. To be a Sultan's brother in
Morocco is not to be a Sultan's favourite, but a possible aspirant to
his throne. Nevertheless Ben Aboo had been made a Kaid, a chief, in the
Sultan's army, and eventually a commander-in-chief of his cavalry.
In that capacity he had led a raid for arrears of tribute on the Beni
Hasan, the Beni Idar, and the Wad Ras These rebellious tribes inhabit
the country near to Tetuan, and hence Ben Aboo's attention had been
first directed to that town. When he had returned from his expedition he
offered the Sultan fifteen thousand dollars for the place of its Basha
or Governor, and promised him thirty thousand dollars a year as tribute.
The Sultan took his money, and accepted his promise. There was a Basha
at Tetuan already, but that was a trifling difficulty. The good man
was summoned to the Sultan's presence, accused of appropriating the
Shereefian tributes, stripped of all he had, and cast into prison.