Chapter IX (3)

"No. He has never done me the slightest wrong. He is a little proud, it is true, and does not look sharp after his business; he is fond of amusements, and when an Israelite bows to him he gives a careless nod and does not try to make a friend of him . . . but his heart is good, and his word is his bond, and in business he is more likely to wrong himself than anybody else."

Sarah, who stood near her husband, wrung her hands, and rocking her body gently, sighed mournfully:

"Ai! all such a handsome gentleman to have such a misfortune happen to him."

"Such a fine young man, and he was going to marry such a beautiful young lady," said the wife of Raphael.

"And how will he be able to marry now, when he is ruined?" said Saul, and he added in a lower voice:

"A great sin has been committed in Israel!"

"A great shame has fallen to-day on Israel's head," said Raphael.

From a corner of the room where the glare penetrated least, came or rather crept forth Abraham. Bent almost in two, and trembling in every limb, he kissed his father's hand.

"Father," he said, "I thank you that you saved me from it."

Saul raised his head. The colour came back to his face, and energy gleamed in his eyes.

"Abraham," he said, in a commanding tone, "have your horses ready at once, and drive as quickly as you can to the estate where the young lord is staying. He cannot see the conflagration from there; drive quickly and tell him to come and save his property and his mother."

"You, Raphael, go at once to the Jankiel's and Leisor's inns where the peasants are drinking. Tell them to drive home quickly to save their lord's property."

Obedient as two children, Saul's two sons left the room at once and the women went into the porch. Then Ber came close to Saul.

"Father! what do you think now of Meir? Was he not right to warn the lord of Kamionka?"

Saul bent his head, but did not answer.

"Father," said her, "save Meir! Go to the Rabbi, and to the judges, and elders; ask them not to bring him before their tribunal."

For a long while Saul did not answer.

"It is very difficult for me to go," he said at last. "The hardest task to humble my gray head before Todros," but he added after a pause, "I will go tomorrow--we must stand up for the child--though he be rash and does not pay due reverence to the faith and customs of his father."

While the foregoing took place in the house of Ezofowich, the little meadow close to the town was covered with a waving, murmuring and compact mass of people. From this spot, the terrible conflagration could be seen most distinctly; therefore the whole population, eager and greedy for sensation, congregated there.

The reflected light of the fire rose above the pine forest, which was enveloped in a ray light and so transparent that every branch and stem could be seen distinctly. The wide half-circle of the glare, dark red below, grew paler and paler above, till the golden yellow light lost itself in the pale blue sky. The stars twinkled with a feeble, uncertain light, and on the opposite side, beyond the birch wood, rose the red ball of the moon.

Among the population, sentences and words, quick and sharp, whizzed about like pistol shots. Somebody was telling that when Jankiel Kamionker heard about the fire, he had gone off to the estate tearing his hair like a madman, wailing and lamenting over the loss of the spirits which he had there in such quantities. Hearing this, many people smiled knowingly; others shook their heads compassionately at the supposed heavy losses of Jankiel; but the greater part of the people remained silent. They guessed the truth; here and there somebody knew about it; but nobody dared to meddle in a business so full of danger, even with an unwary word.

A full hour after the first gleam of the fire had been noticed a light carriage and four gray horses were seen in full gallop across the streets in the direction of the meadow.

It was not the regular road to Kamionka, in fact, there was no road at all; but by driving across the meadow, the young owner shortened his way considerably. He did not sit in the carriage, but stood straight up, holding on by the box, seat, and kept his eyes fixed upon the red glare of the flames, where his mother was, which was consuming the house of his fathers.

When the horses came to the meadow and he saw the crowd, he shouted to the coachman:

"Be careful; do not hurt the people."

"A good man," said one in the crowd; "at such a moment he still thinks of other people."

Some groaned aloud.

A few heads clustered together, whispering. The name of Jankiel was whispered low--very low.

But there was a spot, not on the meadow, but in the little street close by, where people talked aloud. Near Shmul's hut, upon the bench before the window, stood Meir. Thence he looked at the meadow, black with people, and at the red glare of the fire; around him in the street stood a dozen or more young men, his friends. Their faces looked excited and indignant.

Haim, the son of Abraham, who an hour before had been an unseen witness to Saul's conversation with his sons, told his friends about it. Carried away by his indignation, he repeated in a loud voice every word that had passed and his friends re-echoed them. The young and usually timid spirits grew bolder under the pressure of shame and exasperation. Only one voice was missing among the chorus of voices--the most prominent of all, because he was the leading spirit of the young people. Eliezer was not among those who crowded round Meir; he sat apart, leaning against the black wall of the hut, His elbows rested on his knees and his face was buried in his hands. He looked like one petrified in this position; full of grief and shame. From time to time he rocked his body slightly. The dreamy, timid man was overwhelmed with bitter arid desperate thoughts.

Presently, from beyond the corner of the street, a black thin shadow glided swiftly along the walls; and close by the group of young men, the heavy panting, almost moaning, of an exhausted human being became audible.

"Shmul!" said the young men.

"Hush!" said Meir, in a low voice, jumping down from the bench. "Let nobody utter the name of the miserable man, so as not to bring him into danger. I have been standing here to watch for his return. Go away from here, and remember that your eyes have not seen Shmul coming from that direction, not seen--"

"You are right," whispered Aryel; "he is our poor brother,"

"Poor brother, poor, poor!" they repeated all round.

They dispersed at once. Near the hut remained only Meir and Eliezer, whom nothing could rouse from his stupor.

Shmul ran into the hut, now deserted by every one except the blind mother and the smallest children.

There he threw himself at full length upon the floor and beat his forehead in the dust; sobbing and moaning, he uttered in broken sentences:

"I am not guilty, not guilty, not guilty. I did not fire it. I did not hold the vessel full of oil. He, Johel, did it all; I stood on watch in the fields--when I saw the fire--Ai! ai! I understood what I had been doing--"

"Hush!" said a low, sorrowful voice close to the despairing, almost senseless, man. "Hold your tongue, Shmul, till I shut the door and window."

Shmul raised his face, but again dropped it on the dusty floor.

"Morejne," he moaned, "morejne, my daughters were growing up; it was necessary to marry them; I had no money to pay the taxes with for the whole year!"

"Get up and calm yourself," said Meir.

Shmul did not listen. With his lips sweeping the dusty boards, he kept on moaning.

"Morejne! save me. I am lost, body and soul."

"You have not lost your soul, Shmul. The Eternal will weigh your poverty against your sin; that is if you do not take the money with which bad people tempted you."

This time Shmul lifted his face from the floor. The lean and ashy-pale face, covered with dust and twitching with nervous terror, presented a picture of the deepest human misery.

He looked at Meir with despairing eyes, and pointing at the miserable room, he groaned:

"Morejne! how shall we be able to live without that money?"

Fully half-an-hour passed before Meir left the cottage, where the outcast Shmul accused himself, wailed and moaned in a voice that gradually became lower till it almost sank to a whisper. The ruddy glow from the street fell upon one corner of the dark entrance. There, coiled up between the goats, his head resting upon a projecting board, with the red light of the fire upon his face, slept Lejbele. Neither noise nor the glare of the fire, not even the lamentations of his unhappy father, had disturbed his innocent sleep among his friends, the goats.

Next morning an unusual stir prevailed amongst the inhabitants of the town. The common topic of all their conversation was the conflagration at the Kamionka estate. The whole house was reduced to ashes; nearly all the outbuildings had been burned down; the barns and ricks with all the year's harvest had been devoured by the flames.

The old lady, the mother of the lord of Kamionka, was very ill, and had been carried into a neighbour's house.

To discuss these and other items of news, people stood in groups about the streets or before their houses; all the ordinary business of their every-day life seemed suspended for the time being.

Now and then among the groups a single question was heard repeatedly:

"What will become of him?"

The question had nothing whatever to do with the ruined young nobleman, but referred to Jankiel.

Some pitied the former sincerely, as also some blamed the latter; but the landowner was to them a perfect stranger, known to most of them only by sight. Jankiel Kamionker was connected with them by a thousand threads of common interest and friendship; besides that, he was surrounded by the halo of wealth and the reputation of ardent piety. No wonder that even those who blamed him trembled for his safety.

"Will they suspect him?" asked somebody here and there.

"Nobody would dream of suspecting him, but for Meir Ezofowich putting bad thoughts into their heads," was said here and there.

"He has broken the solidarity and the covenant of Israel."

"What else could you expect? He is a kofrim, a heretic!"

"He dared to raise his hand against Reb Moshe!"

"He lives in friendship with the Karaite's girl!"

Those who spoke cast ominous, threatening glances in the direction of Ezofowich's dwelling.

The house was unusually quiet and lifeless. The windows looked upon the square, which, as a rule, were open in summer-time so that anybody could see the daily life of people who had nothing to conceal, were shut to-day. No one had remembered to open them, or to straighten the sitting-room--as a rule kept in such perfect order. The women wandered aimlessly from one place to another; their caps were crushed and in disorder from their frequently putting their hands upon their heads; they stood before the kitchen fire and sighed distractedly. Sarah's eyes were red; her husband, Ber, had two deep wrinkles on his forehead, a sure sign to her that he suffered grievously. He did not open his lips to her, but sat with his head resting upon his hand, looking vacantly at his brothers-in-law. Raphael had his account books before him, but his thoughts were elsewhere as he raised his head frequently and looked at his brothers. Old Saul sat on the sofa reading the sacred books; but, judging by his countenance, derived but little comfort from them.

Near the window in her deep easy-chair sat the great-grandmother, dozing. Hers was the only face that did not show any change, or lose any of its usual serenity. She opened her eyes now and then, then dozed off again. Soon after twelve o'clock the women busied themselves with arranging the table for dinner.

The door opened softly. Meir entered the room, and standing close to the wall, his eyes looked around at all faces. It was a troubled look, almost timid and very sorrowful. Those present raised their eyes at him for a second only; but in that short instant a heavy load of mute reproaches fell upon the young man. It was the reproach of people used to a quiet, peaceful life, for past troubles and troubles still to come; there was some pity in it for the offender, and also a threat of casting him off.

Only the great-grandmother opened her eyes when she saw him, and with a smile, murmured:

"Kleineskind!"

Meir's eyes rested tenderly and thoughtfully upon her face. At this moment there came a sudden dash and a heavy thump. From among the groups that looked angrily at Ezofowich's house, somebody had thrown a heavy stone, which, breaking the window, flew close over Freida's head and fell into the middle of the room.

Saul's face became of a dull red; the women arranging the table screamed in terror; Raphael, Abraham, and Ber jumped up suddenly. All stared at the broken window, but presently their attention became concentrated upon their great-grandmother Freida, who stood straight up and looked attentively at the stone in the middle of the room, and then called out in her loud, tuneless whisper:

"It is the same stone! They threw it through the window the same when Reb Nohim quarrelled with Hersh because he wanted to live in friendship with the strangers. It is the same stone--at whom did they throw it now?" All the wrinkles in her face quivered, and her eyes for the first time wide open, travelled about the room.

"At whom did they throw it?" she repeated.

"At me, dear bobe," replied, from the opposite wall, a voice full of unspoken grief.

"Meir!" exclaimed the great-grandmother--not in her usual whisper, but in a loud, almost piercing voice.

Meir crossed the room, stood before her and took the little wrinkled hand caressingly in his own. He looked at her eyes full of tenderness, and as if in mute entreaty. She seemed to feel his look, for her eyelids flickered tremulously and restlessly. Saul rose from the sofa.

"Raphael," he said. "Give me my cloak and hat."

"Where are you going, father?" asked both sons simultaneously.

"I am going to humble my head before the Rabbi; to ask him to delay his judgment on my headstrong child until the anger in the hearts of the people has subsided."

Presently the gray-headed patriarch of the greatest family in the town, dressed in his long cloak and tall shiny hat, was seen slowly and gravely crossing the market-place. The groups standing about made way for him, bowing respectfully.

Somebody said loudly

"Poor Reb Saul, to have such a grandson!" The old man did not reply, but pressed his lips closer together.

More than an hour had elapsed ere Saul returned from his errand. He found all the elder members of the family in the same position as he had left them. Meir sat close to the easy-chair of the great-grandmother, who tightly clutched him by the coat sleeve.

Sarah met her father and relieved him of his hat and cloak.

"What news do you bring, father?" asked Raphael.

Saul breathed heavily, and looked gloomily on the floor.

"What could I bring from there," he said after a momentary silence, "but shame and humiliation? The hearts of Todros rejoices over the misfortune of the house of Ezofowich. Smiles, like reptiles, are writhing and crawling over his yellow face."

"And what did he say?" asked several voices. "He said he had been far too forbearing towards my godless, insolent grandson--that Reb Moshe, Kamionker, and all the people were urging him to sit in judgment upon Meir; at my intercession he would put off the trial until to-morrow after sunset, and said if Meir humbled himself and asked his and his people's pardon, the sentence would be less severe."

All eyes turned towards Meir.

"What do you say to it?" asked a chorus of voices.

Meir looked thoughtfully down.

"Give me time--till to-morrow," he pleaded. "I may perhaps find a way out of it."

"How can you find a way?" they exclaimed. "Allow me not to answer you till to-morrow," repeated Meir.

They nodded and became silent. It was mute consent.

In all their hearts fear and anger were struggling with family pride. They felt angry with Meir, yet trembled for his fate, and the very thought that a member of their family should humble himself publicly before the Rabbi and the people seemed unbearable.

"Who knows," whispered Raphael, "he may find a way to avoid it?"

"Perhaps his mother will appear to him in his sleep and tell him what to do," sighed Sarah.

The belated dinner, passed off in gloomy silence, interrupted only by the sighs of women and a smothered sob from the children, who had been forbidden to laugh and chatter.

The grieved and mournful faces looked now and then at Freida, who showed an unusual restlessness. She did not speak, neither did she doze during the meal; but moved uneasily in her chair, looked at Meir, then at the shattered window, and in the middle of the room on the spot where the stone had fallen.

"What ails her?" asked the members of the family of each other, in a perturbed voice.

"She is recalling something to her mind," others replied. "She is afraid of something. She wants to speak, but cannot find words."

When the dinner was over, two great-granddaughters wanted to help Freida into the next room and lay her down to rest as usual, but she planted her feet firmly on the floor and pointed to the easy-chair by the window. Presently the inmates of the room began gradually to disperse.

Raphael and Ber went driving away to a neighbouring estate, where they had some important business to transact. Abraham shut himself up in his room to look after his accounts, or perhaps to read. Saul gave orders to his daughter to keep the house quiet, and sighing wearily, lay down upon his bed. The women, after raking out the fire in the kitchen, shut the door of the sitting-room and betook themselves with their needlework to the courtyard, where they watched the children at play, and conversed together in a low voice. The great-grandmother remained alone in the sitting-room.

Strange to say, though perfect silence reigned in the house, she did not fall asleep or even doze for a moment.

She sat in the easy-chair with her eyes wide open, and looking at the broken window, her lips kept moving continually as if she were speaking to herself. Sometimes she rocked her head, heavy, with the voluminous turban, and the diamonds flashed out and glittered in the sudden motion, and the pendants jingled against the links of the golden chain. Her lips moved incessantly. Presently her hands also moved quickly. It seemed as if she spoke with somebody; with the spirits of the Past, who came forth from her clouded memory. Suddenly she rocked her head, and said aloud:

"It was the same way when my Hersh found the writing of the Senior--bad people threw stones at him."

She stopped; great tears gathered in her eyes and ran down her withered cheeks.

Meir rose from the bench where he had been sitting, crossed the room quickly, sat down on the low stool where the old woman rested her foot, and putting his folded hands upon her knee asked:

"Bobe! where is the writing of the Senior?"

At the sound of the voice which, as well as the face, reminded her of the man she had loved so well, and the days of her youth and happiness, she smiled. Her eyes full of tears did not look at her great-grandson, but somewhere far beyond, and she began to whisper:

"The day he quarrelled with Reb Nohim and angered the people, he came home and sat down sorrowful upon the bench and called his wife, Freida. Freida was then young and beautiful; she wore a white turban and stood before the kitchen fire, looking after the servants; but when she heard her husband's voice, she went at once and stood before him, waiting for his words. 'Freida!' he said, 'where the writing of the Senior?'"

Then suddenly the whisper ceased. The young man sitting at her feet pressed his hands convulsively together and asked again:

"Bobe! where is the writing of the Senior?"

The old woman gently swayed her head, and her lips moved.

"He asked: 'Where is the writing of the Senior? Did the Senior bury it in the ground? No! he could not have buried it, as dampness and worms would have destroyed it. Did he hide it in the walls? No! he knew that fire might destroy the walls. Where did he hide it?' Thus asked Hersh, and his wife Freida pondered over his words and then pointed at the bookcase where the Senior's old books were preserved, and said: 'Hersh my Hersh! the writing is there.' When Freida said that, Hersh rejoiced and said: 'You, Freida, have a wise head, and your soul is as beautiful as your eyes.'"

And smiling at the dim pictures of her youthful days, she whispered:

"Then he said: 'A virtuous woman is far above rubies and her husband doth trust her!'"

The young man looked at her with entreating eyes, and again asked:

"Bobe! what did Hersh do with the writing?"

The old woman did not answer at once, but her lips moved silently as if she spoke with an invisible being, and then took up the thread of her tale again:

"Hersh came back from a long journey, deeply grieved, and said to Freida: 'Everything is lost. We must bide the Senior's writing again; it is no use now.' Freida asked: 'Hersh! where will you hide the writing?' Hersh replied: 'I will hide it where it was before, and you alone, Freida, will know the secret.'"

Meir's eyes sparkled with sudden joy.

"Bobe! is the writing there?" And he pointed at the old bookcase.

Freida gave no answer, but continued in a whisper:

"He said: 'You alone will know the secret. And when the time is drawing near and your soul is about to leave your body, tell it to the son or grandson who resembles most your husband'--'and which of my sons or grandsons is most like my husband Hersh?' 'It is Meir, the son of Benjamin, who is like him as two grains of sand are like each other. He is my child, the dearest of all. Freida will tell him the secret.'"

Meir took both the hands of his great-grandmother in his own, and covered them with kisses.

"Bobe," he whispered, "Is the writing there?" pointing at the bookcase. But the old woman still followed the thread of her musings.

"Hersh said to Freida: 'If the elders of the family raise their hands against him and the people throw stones at him, you, Freida, tell him the secret. Let him take the writing of the Senior to his heart, and leave everything, his house and wealth and family, and go forth into the world; for that writing is more precious than gold and pearls. It is the covenant of Israel with the Present, which flows like a great river over their heads and with the nations which tower around him like great mountains.'"

"Bobe! the elders of the family have risen up against me; the people have thrown stones at me--I am that dearest grandson of whom your husband Hersh spoke--tell me, is the writing among those old volumes?"

A broad, almost triumphant, smile lit up the wrinkled face. She shook her head with a feeling of secret joy, and whispered:

"Freida has watched over her husband's treasure and guarded it like her own soul. When she became a widow, Reb Nohim Todros came to her house and wanted to have the bookcase and the volumes put into the fire; then Reb Baruch Todros came and wanted to burn the books; but whenever they came, Freida screened the bookcase with her own body, and said: 'This is my house, and everything in it is my own.' And when Freida stood before the bookcase, Freida's sons and grandsons stood before her and said: 'It is our mother; we will not let her be harmed.'"

"Reb Nohim was very angry and went away--Reb Isaak did not come, because he knew from his fathers that as long as Freida lives nobody touched the old bookcase--Freida has watched over her husband's treasure; it remains there and sleeps in peace."

With these last words the old woman pointed her thin hand at the bookcase, which stood not far from her, and a quiet laugh, a laugh of joy and almost childish triumph, shook her aged breast.

With one bound Meir reached the bookcase, and with a powerful hand shook the old, rusty lock. The door flew open and a cloud of dust burst forth which covered Meir's head as it had once--long ago--covered Hersh's golden hair and Freida's white turban. He did not heed it, but plunged his hand amongst the books from which his ancestors, had drawn their wisdom and where that lay hidden which was to direct him on his way.

At the sight of the open bookcase and the clouds of dust Freida stretched forth both arms and called out:

"Hersh! Hersh! my own Hersh!"

It was not the usual tuneless whisper, but a loud cry wrung from the heart, full of the joys and griefs of the past. She had forgotten the great-grandson, and thought the tall, golden-haired youth, covered with dust, was her husband come back to her from unknown worlds.

Meir turned his excited face and burning eyes to her.

"Bobe!" he said breathlessly, "where is it? On the top? Below? In this book--that--or that?"

"In that," said the woman, pointing at the book upon which Meir's hand rested.

Presently a roll of yellow papers rustled under the parchment cover of the volume. Holding them in both hands, Meir fell down before his great-grandmother and kissed her hands and feet.

Freida smiled, and touched his head gently; but by and by her eyelids drooped, and her whole face took the expression of sweet dreaminess again. Tired with the strain upon her clouded memory, looking still into the bright dreamland of the past, the centenarian had fallen asleep--touched, as it were, by a gentle wave of the eternal sleep.

The passionate outpouring of thanks did not rouse her again. Meir hid the precious papers in his breast and went swiftly upstairs towards the top of the house, where his young cousins dwelt.

During the whole of the evening, and the greater part of the night, the large window near the pointed roof flickered with an uncertain light, and people were seen moving about constantly. At early dawn, some people came out of the house by a side door and went in different directions.

Soon afterwards strange news began to circulate about the town. The news was undefined, vague, told and explained in different ways; but, such as it was, it excited the greatest curiosity among the people. The everyday work seemed to go on as usual, but in the midst of the dashing and rattling of implements of handiwork a continual hum of conversation was going on. Nobody could point out the source from which sprung all the rumours which filled the public mind; they seemed to be floating in the air, and pervading all the streets and alleys.

"To-day, after sunset the elders of the Kahol and the judges, with Rabbi Isaak at their head, will sit in judgment upon Meir Ezofowich."

"How will they judge him? What will they do to him?"

"No; there will be no judgment. The bold grandson of Reb Saul will come to the Bet-ha-Midrash and confess his sins before the Rabbi and the people, and ask forgiveness!"

"No, he will not humble himself or ask forgiveness."

"Why should he not?"

"Ah, ah, it is a great secret, but everybody knows about it, and everybody's eyes burn with curiosity. Young Meir has found a treasure!"

"What treasure?"

"A treasure that has been buried for five hundred years--a thousand years--ever since the Jews came into this country, in the house of Ezofowich. The treasure is the writing of one of their ancestors, left as a legacy to his descendants."

"What does the writing say?"

"No one knows for certain."

All the inhabitants of the poorer streets had heard something about it from their fathers and grandfathers; but everybody bad heard it different. Some said it was the writing of a wise and saintly Israelite, who lived long ago, and who wanted to make his nation powerful and wise. Others maintained that this same ancestor of Ezofowich was an unbeliever, bribed by the stranger to destroy the name of Israel and the holy covenant from the face of the earth.

"The writing was to teach people how to make gold out of sand, and it tells poor people how to get rich."

"No! it teaches how to drive away the evil spirits, so that they cannot touch you, and how to transpose the letters of God's names into a word with which you can work miracles."

"The writing teaches how to make friends out of your enemies, and to enter into a covenant of peace with all nations. Somebody heard that it showed the way how to bring Moses back to life again, and call on him to bring his people out of bondage into the land that flows with gold and wisdom."

"Why did they not search for the treasure sooner?"

"They were afraid. It is said that whoever touches that writing will be scorched with fire and burned into powder. Serpents will twist themselves around his heart! His forehead will become as black as soot! Happiness and peace will go from him for ever! Stones will fall upon him like hail! His forehead will be branded with a red mark! Long, long ago, there still lived people who remembered it, the great merchant, Hersh Ezofowich, Saul's father, had touched that writing."

"And what became of him?"

"The old people said that when he touched the papers serpents coiled round his heart and bit him, so that he died young."

"And now young Meir has found that writing?"

"Yes, he has found it, and is going to read it before the people in Bet-ha-Midrash after sunset."

Going to and fro amongst the people who exchanged the above opinions, was Reb Moshe, the melamed. He appeared first in one street, then in another; was seen in one court, and near another's window; always listening intently; he smiled now and then and his eyes gleamed, but he said nothing. When directly appealed to by people, and urged to give an opinion, he shook his head gloomily and muttered unintelligible sentences. He could not say anything, as he had not spoken to the master yet, to whom, out of fanatical faith and mystic personal attachment he had given himself up body and soul. Without definite orders from the revered sage he dared not give an opinion or settle things even in his own mind. He might unwittingly act against his master's wish, or transgress any of the thousands of precepts; though he knew them all by heart, yet he might fail to catch their deeper meaning without the guiding spirit. The melamed was fully conscious of his own wisdom, yet what did it mean in comparison with the Rabbi's, whose mind pierced the very heavens? Jehovah looked upon him with pleased eyes, and wondered how he could have created such a perfect being as Rabbi Isaak Todros.

About noon, when his mind and ears were full of what he had heard, he glided silently into the Rabbi's hut. He could not get the Rabbi's ear at once, because he was conversing with an old man, whose dusty, travel-stained garments showed that he had come a great distance; he now stood leaning on his stick before the Rabbi, looking at him with humble, and at the same time radiant, eyes.

"I dearly wished," he said, in a voice trembling with age and emotion, "to go to Jerusalem to die in the land of our fathers; but I am poor and have no money for the journey. Give me, O Rabbi, a handful of the sand which they bring to you every year from there, so that my grandchildren may scatter it upon my breast when the soul is about to leave my body. With that handful of soil, I shall lie easier in my grave."

The Rabbi took some white sand out of a carefully, wrapped-up bag and gave it to the old man.

The man's whole face lighted up with joy; he carefully secured the precious relic under his ragged garments, and then kissed the Rabbi's hand with fervent gratitude.

"Rabbi," he said, "I have nothing to pay you with."

Todros craned his yellow neck towards him:

"You have come from a far country, indeed, if you do not know that Isaak Todros does not take payment. If I do good to my brethren, I ask only for one reward: that the Almighty may increase by one drop the wisdom I possess already, but of which I can never have enough."

The old man looked with admiring eyes at the sage, who, so full of wisdom, yet wished for more.

"Rabbi," he sighed, "allow me to kiss your benevolent hand."

"Kiss it," said the master gently, and when the old man bent his head covered with white hair, the Rabbi put his arm round him and kissed him on the forehead.

"Rabbi!" exclaimed the old man, with a burst of happiness in his voice, "you are good--you are our father--our master and brother."

"Blessing upon you," replied Todros, "for having preserved your faith until your old age, and the love for our fatherland which makes you prize a handful of its soil more than gold and silver."

Both their eyes were full of tears. It was the first time they had ever met, and yet their hearts were full of brotherly love and mutual sympathy.

Reb Moshe, who sat in his usual corner waiting for the end of the interview, also had tears in his eyes. When Isaak Todros was alone be still waited a little, and then said in a low voice:

"Nassi!"

"Hah?" asked the sage, who was already buried in mystic speculation.

"There is great news about the town."

"What news?"

"Meir Ezofowich has found the writing of his ancestor, the Senior, and is going to read it to-day before the assembled people."

The Rabbi was now fully awake, and craning his neck towards the melamed, exclaimed:

"How did you come to hear of it?"

"Ah! the whole town is full of it. Meir's friends since early morning have been among the people spreading the news."

Todros did not say a word; but his eyes had a keen, almost savage expression.

"Nassi! will you allow him to do this?"

Todros was silent. At last he said in a determined voice:

"I will."

Reb Moshe gave a convulsive start.

"Rabbi!" he exclaimed, "you are the wisest man that ever was, or will be on this earth; but has your wisdom considered all the consequences, and that this writing may detach the people from you and the covenant?"

Todros looked at him sternly:

"You do not know the spirit of the people if you can speak and think like that. Have not I and my fathers before me tried to mould and educate the people and make them faithful to their religion? Let him read the papers--let the abomination come forth from its hiding-place, where it has lain till now; it will be easier to fight against it and crush it down, once and for ever. Let him read it: the measure of his transgressions will then be full, and my avenging hand will come down upon him!"

A long silence followed upon these words. The master was absorbed in thought, and the humble follower looked at him in silent adoration.

"Moshe!"

"What is your will, Nassi?"

"That writing must be taken from him and delivered into my hands."

"Nassi! how is it to be taken from him?"

"That writing must be taken and delivered into my hands!" repeated the Rabbi decisively.

"Nassi! who is to take it from him?" Todros fixed his glaring eyes upon his follower. "That writing must be taken from him and delivered into my hands," he repeated for the third time.

Moshe bent his head.

"Rabbi!" he whispered, "I understand. Rest in peace. When he reads the abomination before the people such a storm will break over his head that it will lay him in the dust."

Again there was silence. The Rabbi interrupted it:

"Moshe!"

"Yes, Nassi!"

"When is he going to read that blasphemous writing?"

"He is going to read it in the Bet-ha-Midrash after sunset."

"Moshe! go at once to the shamos (messenger) and tell him to convoke the elders and the judges in the Bet-ha-Kahol for a solemn judgment."

Moshe rose obediently, and went towards the door. The Rabbi, raising both arms, exclaimed "Woe to the headstrong and disobedient! Woe to him who touches the leper and spreads contagion!"

Saying this, his whole face became suffused with a wave of dark, relentless hatred. And yet, a quarter of an hour ago the same face was full of brotherly love; the same mouth spoke gentle and comforting words, and the eyes were full of tears.

Thus gentleness and wrath, love and relentless hatred dwelt side by side in the same heart; virtues and dark crimes flow from the same source. Charity goes hand in hand with persecution and neighbour often stands for enemy. Man, who tended to human suffering and healed the sick, with the same hand lit the stakes and prepared the instruments of torture.

What mysterious influences rule such dual lives?--asks the perplexed student of human nature.

But for these mysterious undercurrents which lead human brains and hearts into awful error, Rabbi Isaak might have been a great man.

Let us be just. He would have been a great man but for those that raised the weapons of fire and sword, and the still more deadly weapons of scorn and contempt, against his brethren, and thus confined them in the narrow, dark,--a spiritual and moral Ghetto!

The sun had set, and the earth was wrapped in the dim light of a summer evening. The large court of the synagogue swarmed with a crowd. The interior of Bet-ha-Midrash was already full of people. There could be seen heads of old men and fair locks of children, long beards, black like crow's wings and blonde like hemp. They all moved and swayed, necks were craned, beards raised, and eyes glowed in anticipation of some new sensation. Everything appeared in shadow. The large room was lighted by a small lamp, suspended at the entrance door, and a single tallow candle in a brass candlestick, which stood on a white table; this, with a solitary chair close to the high and bare wall, constituted the platform from which the speaker was wont to address the people. In Israel, everybody, young or old, and of whatever social position, had the right to speak in public, according to the democratic principles prevailing in the ancient law. Every Israelite had the right to enter this building, whether for the purposes of praying, reading, or teaching.

The people who crowded outside the building looked often in at the windows of the room where the elders and judges held their conferences. In the entrance hall the lamp was being lit, and burning candles were placed upon the long table. Presently people well-known to the inhabitants ascended, the steps of the portico. Singly or in twos arrived the judges of the community--all of them men well on in years, fathers of large families, wealthy merchants, or house owners. There ought to have been twelve in number, but the bystanders counted only up to eleven. The twelfth judge was Raphael Ezofowich. People whispered to each other that the uncle of the accused could not sit in judgment against him; others said that he would not. After the judges arrived, the elders, amongst whom was Morejne Calman, with his hands in his pockets and the stereotyped, honeyed smile on his lips, and Jankiel Kamionker, whose face looked very yellow, and whose eyes had the hunted look of a criminal. The last, but not least of them, was Isaak Todros, who glided in so swiftly and silently that scarcely anybody in the crowd noticed him.

At the same time, from the depth of Bet-ha-Midrash, a clear, resonant voice reached the ears of the surging crowd without:

"In the name of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, hear, O Israel!"

The murmur of the crowd within and without increased, and almost rose to a tumult. For a few moments the voice of the speaker was drowned in the general hubbub, and his few sentences sounded indistinct and broken.

Suddenly somebody from the crowd shouted:

"Silence and listen, for it is said: 'You shall listen to whosoever speaketh in the name of Jehovah!'"

"That is true," murmured voices. "He began in the name of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob."

Then everything became quiet, except for the rustle of those near the door, who tried to get a better view of the speaker. They did not see anything unusual. Behind the white table, pale and grave, stood Meir Ezofowich. He was much paler than usual, and his eyes burned feverishly. His emotion was not the outcome of fear or doubt, but of a powerful conviction and radiant hope. In his hands he held a few sheets of old yellow paper, which he raised now and then, to show whence he took his words.

"O Israel!" he read out, in a clear and thrilling voice, "you are a great people! You were the first among nations who recognised one God in heaven, and heard on earth, amid the roar of thunder and flashes of lightning, those ten great commandments, which, like ten rocks, helped you and other nations to climb towards the sun of perfection. Israel! blind from his birth, or blinded by malice, must be the man who fails to recognise the greatness of your mission. Dry from its birth, or dried by the searching breath that comes from the nether world, must be the eye that does not shed a tear at the sight of your sufferings. Ill-fated he who, looking at you, calls you contemptible. May the Lord pity him and forgive him, as he possesses not the balance in which are weighed a nation's virtues and crimes, possesses not the wisdom which shows how pain and degradation produce sin. Israel! of you were born Moses, whose love was like the flaming bush, David with the golden harp, the beautiful Esther, weeping over the misery of her people. The Maccabees with their mighty swords came from among you, and the prophets who died for their faith. Whilst living happily in the land of your fathers, you loathed to bind a brother into slavery; upon your fields you left the tenth sheaf to the poor and needy, and gave a hearing to anybody who spoke to the people. Humbling yourself only before Jehovah, you said: 'We are all alike in the eyes of our Father.' And when, in after years, ill-fated, vanquished, covered with the blood of your sons who defended the land of their fathers, you stood an outcast amongst nations, and suffered from contempt and persecution, you yet remained faithful unto your God and the memory of your fathers, and taught other nations who suffered like you how to defend themselves without weapons. The Lord hath made you intelligent, pure, and charitable, O my people; but it is nigh two thousand years since you possessed the one necessary thing on earth--a fatherland."

Here the voice of the speaker gave way, and he paused for a minute. The crowd had caught his emotion, and a low tremor seemed to pass through the people. A few subdued voices murmured:

"Let us listen! Let us listen! It is the writing of a true Israelite who tells of the glory of his people."

They listened in silence, and Meir went on:

"Woe to the people who have no fatherland! The soul of the people clings to the soil as a child clings to its mother's breast which gives it nourishment, health, and relief from sickness. The Lord ordained it thus; but the people acted against His will and tore your soul, O Israel, from the soil to which it was attached. As an outcast you went and knocked for charity at the very doors of those that had despoiled you; your head bent down under laws from which your mind recoiled; your tongue tried to imitate their speech, and the roof of your mouth dried up in exceeding bitterness; your face darkened from wrath and humiliation, and you lived in fear lest your faith and the name of Israel should be obliterated from the face of the earth. Then under torments and awful sorrows your greatness fell from you; your sins and transgressions began to grow and multiply, and Jehovah your Lord, looking down upon you said: 'Is this my chosen people with whom I made the covenant of Truth and Grace? Can he not keep it except with the words of his mouth, which do not agree with the deeds of his hands? Does he see the covenant only in his offerings; songs, prayers, and incense, and forget the high ladder I showed my servant Jacob in his dream to teach the people in all times how to reach me, who is Perfection and Understanding.'"

Here the voice of the reader became drowned again in a low, ever-increasing murmur.

"What is it he is reading?" they asked each other. "It is the writing of a bad Israelite who throws ugly words at his people."

"Which are those sins that have been multiplying amongst us? And how are we to praise the Lord if our songs and, prayers have no value in His eyes?"

Meir grew pale when he found his voice powerless against the increasing tumult. But he would not stop now, and went on reading. By and by curiosity prevailed over discontent and they became silent once more.

They listened to the tale of Michael Senior's life; how, by order of the king, and out of love for his people, he had stood at the head of their affairs, and wanted to lead them into new ways, at the end of which he saw the dawning of a happy future; how he had been thwarted in all his undertakings, and the heart of the people turned away from him.

"Great thoughts crowded into my brain which I could not utter, because my old friends and my pupils abandoned me! In my breast there was fire, at which they would not warm themselves, but said it had been kindled by evil spirits. Then my body wasted away, the light of my eyes became dim, and the sleep of death drew near. I cried out in anguish: 'Lord of the world! do not forsake thy messenger! Give him a voice powerful enough to reach the ears of those that are not born, since those that live will listen no longer.' And I opened the Holy Book and read:"

"'Though he be dead, he yet speaketh.' Son of my sons, you who have found this writing, read it to the people to let them know what I desired from them. The first thing I asked from them was; Forgetfulness. Did I want them to forget their Lord Jehovah, or the name of Israel which produced the greatest men of the past? No, I could not ask them to forget it because the remembrance is dear to me and rejoices my heart."

"I asked my people to forget the wrongs and sorrows of the past. Do not remember injuries! Do not say an eye for an eye! Mar Zutra every day, before he lay down to rest, said, 'I forgive all those that have saddened me.' Mar Zutra was a great man."

"When you begin to forget Israel, you will approach the flame which you speak of as alien, and which belongs to all nations. The alien flame, from which you fly in your blind hatred, has been kindled by Sar-ha-Olam, the angel of knowledge, who is the Angel of Angels and the prince of the world. The knowledge of religion is sacred, but other knowledge has equally been created by him who dwells in perfect wisdom. Good is the apple of paradise, but are we therefore to refuse other products of the earth? A time will come when the world will be full of knowledge, as the sea is full of water."

"Thus spoke and wrote the sage whom your teachers hold accursed. His name was Moses Majmonides, a true prophet, who did not look into the past but into the future, for he knew that a time would come when all those who did not gather around the flame of wisdom would fall into the dust, and their name become a by-word of contempt and derision. He was the second Moses; he was my teacher from whom came all my joy and all my sorrow."

Here the reader dropped the hands that held the papers, and an expression of rapture shone in his face.

"He was my teacher from whom came all my joy and all my sorrow." Strange coincidence! Both he and his ancestor who had died three hundred years ago had listened to the same teacher. In the hearts of both he had kindled the heroic, self-sacrificing love, the greatest upon earth--the love of the ideal. But the descendant who read these words which one by one dispersed all his doubts, felt no sorrow; nothing but a great joy and hope.

A hoarse and thick voice shouted from the crowd:

"Hear! hear! he praises alien flames! He calls the accursed heretic a second Moses!"

All heads turned towards the door to see who had spoken. It was Reb Moshe, who had climbed upon the bench near the door and was thus raised above the crowd; he shook his head, laughed derisively, and fixed his malignant eyes upon Meir. But the people's curiosity was not yet satisfied; under their ragged garments many hearts were beating with a new, and by themselves undefined sensation.

"He speaks to us through the mouth of his descendant. Listen to him whose soul dwells already amongst the Sefirots."

An old man with stooping back, who leaned upon his stick, raised his white head and said to Meir, plaintively:

"How could Israel warm himself at the sun of knowledge when he was driven away from it by his enemies? And we once had, Reb, famous physicians and wise men who were ministers at the courts of kings; but when they thrust us from the portals of knowledge we went forth and said: Henceforth Israel will hold aloof from the stranger, like an elder brother whom the younger brethren have offended."

Meir looked at the old man with a gentle, half-triumphant smile.

"Reb!" he replied, "the voice of my ancestor will give an answer to your question:"

"A time will come when wrong and injustice will disappear from the earth. The gates of knowledge will be thrown open wide before you. Enter quickly with a joyful heart, because understanding is the greatest weapon given by the Lord who rules the world by the eternal laws of wisdom."

"They do not wish to behold the works of the Creator; of such it is said: 'A fool hath no delight in understanding.'"

"The second thing I asked from my people is: Remembrance. Rava asked Raba, the son of Moro, the origin of the proverb! 'Do not throw mud into the fountain from which thou drinkest.' Raba answered with the words of the Scriptures: 'Thou shalt not abhor an Egyptian, because thou wast a stranger in his land.' Eliezer the son of Azalrya, said: 'The Egyptians did not invite the Israelites into their country from self-interest, therefore the Lord rewarded them.' Since the country whose bread you eat did not treat you as cattle to plough his field, but as a tired brother to rest on his bosom, how have you rewarded it, O Israel?"

"It is not said, Thou shalt despoil the stranger, but 'One Law shall be for him that is home-born and unto the stranger that sojourneth among you.'"