In the meantime, the other two had sped away to the Kasbah, and before Israel had ridden far into the town, the Kaid--against all usage of his class and country--ran and met him--afoot, slipperless, wearing nothing but selham and tarboosh, out of breath, yet with a mouth full of excuses.
"I heard you were coming," he panted--"sent for by the Sultan--Allah preserve him!--but had I known you were to be here so soon--I--that is--" "Peace be with you!" interrupted Israel.
"God grant you peace.

The Sultan--praise the merciful Allah!" the Kaid continued, bowing low over Israel's stirrup--"he reached Fez from Marrakesh last sunset; you will be in time for him." "God will show," said Israel, and he pushed forward.
"Ah, true--yes--certainly--my lord is tired," puffed the Kaid, bowing again most profoundly.

"Well, your lodging is ready--the best in Mequinez--and your mona is cooking--all the dainties of Barbary--and when our merciful Abd er-Rahman has made you his Grand Vizier--" Thus the man chattered like a jay, bowing low at nigh every word, until they came to the house wherein Israel and his people were to rest until sunset; and always the burden of his words was the same--the Sultan, the Sultan, the Sultan, and Abd er-Rahman, Abd er-Rahman! Israel could bear no more.

"Basha," he said "it is a mistake; the Sultan has not sent for me, and neither am I going to see him." "Not going to him ?" the Kaid echoed vacantly.
"No, but to another," said Israel; "and you of all men can best tell me where that other is to be found.

A great man, newly risen--yet a poor man--the young Mahdi Mohammed of Mequinez." Then there was a long silence.
Israel did not rest in Mequinez until sunset of that day.