But suddenly in the midst of the wild vociferations there was a shrill cry of "He is there!" and then there was a great silence.
It was Israel himself.

He was coming afoot down the lane under the town walls from the gate called the Bab Toot, where the road comes in from Shawan.

At fifty paces behind him Ali, the black boy, was riding one mule and leading another.
He was returning from the prison, and thinking how the poor followers of Absalam, after he had fed them of his poverty, had blest him out of their dry throats, saying, "May the God of Jacob bless you also, brother!" and "May the child of your wife be blessed!" Ah! those blessings, he could hear them still! They followed him as he walked.
He did not fly from them any longer, for they sang in his ears and were like music in his melted soul.

Once before he had heard such music.
It was in England.

The organ swelled and the voices rose, and he was a lonely boy, for his mother lay in her grave at his feet.