Everything that related to the burial he had managed himself, down to
the least or poorest detail. But there was nothing poor about it in
the larger sense. Israel was a rich man now, and he set no value on his
riches except to subdue the fate that had first beaten him down and to
abash the enemies who still menaced him. Nothing was lacking that money
could buy in Tetuan to make this burial an imposing ceremony. Only one
thing it wanted--it wanted mourners, and it had but one.

Unlike her father, little Naomi was visibly excited. She ran to and fro,
clutched at Israel's clothes and seemed to look into his face, clasped
the hand of little Ali and held it long as if in fear. Whether she knew
what work was afoot, and, if she knew it, by what channel of soul or
sense she learnt it, no man can say. That she was conscious of the
presence of many strangers is certain, and when the men from the Kasbah
brought the roll of white linen down the stairway, with the two black
women clinging to it, kissing its fringe and wailing over it, she broke
away from Israel and rushed in among them with a startled cry, and her
little white arms upraised. But whatever her impulse, there was no need
to check her. The moment she had touched her mother she crept back in
dread to her father's side.

"God be gracious to my father, look at that," whispered Fatimah.

"My child, my poor child," said Israel, "is there but one thing in life
that speaks to you? And is that death? Oh, little one, little one!"

It was a strange procession which then passed out of the patio. Four of
the prisoners carried the coffin on their shoulders, walking in pairs
according to their fetters. They were gaunt and bony creatures. Hunger
had wasted their sallow cheeks, and the air of noisome dungeons had