Walking one behind the other, they crossed a long, narrow street, and found themselves in the fields which divided Abel Karaim's hut from the town.
It was now almost dark, but no flickering light was to be seen in Abel's window. They were not asleep yet, as Meir could see the dark outline of Golda near the window.
They greeted each other with a silent motion of the head.
"Golda," said Meir, in a low and rapid voice, "have you met with any unpleasantness lately? Has anybody molested you?"
The girl pondered a little over his question. "Why do you ask me that, Meir?"
"I was afraid some injury might have been done to you. People have spread some foolish slander about us."
"I do not mind injury; I have grown up with it. Injury is my sister."
Meir still looked troubled. "Why have you no light burning?" he asked.
"I have nothing to spin, and zeide prays in darkness."
"And why have you nothing to spin?"
"I carried the yarn to Hannah Witebska and Sarah, Ber's wife, and they did not give me any more wool."
"They have not insulted you?" asked Meir angrily
Golda was again silent.
"People's eyes often say worse things than tongues," she replied at last quietly.
Evidently she did not want to complain, or it may be her mind was too full of other things to heed it much.
"Meir," she said, "you have been in great trouble yourself lately?"
Meir sat down upon the bench outside and leaned his head upon his hand with a weary sigh.
"The greatest trouble and grief fell upon me to-day when I found that the people had turned away from me. Their former friendship has changed into ill feeling, and those that confided in me suspect me now of evil."
Golda hung her head sadly, and Meir went on:
"I do not know myself what to do. If I follow the promptings of my heart, my people will hate and persecute me. If I act against my conscience I shall hate myself and never know peace and happiness. Whilst I was sitting in the Bet-ha-Midrash I had almost made up my mind to let things be, and to try and live in peace with everybody; but when I had left the Ha-Midrash my temper again got the better of me, and rescuing a poor child I offended the melamed, and through him the elders and the people. That is what I have done to-day. Arid when I come to think of it, it seems to me a rash, useless act, as it will not prevent the melamed from destroying the poor children's health and intelligence. What can I do? I am alone, young, without a wife and family, or any position in the world. They can do with me what they like, and I can do nothing. They will persecute my friends until they desert me; they have already begun to injure and insult you, because you gave me your heart and joined your voice with mine on the meadow. I shall only bring unhappiness to you; perhaps it would be better to shut my eyes and ears to everything, and live like other people."
His voice became lower and lower, and more difficult from the inward struggle with doubts and perplexities.
Both remained silent for a few minutes, when suddenly a strange noise, seemingly from the other side of the hill, reached their ears. First it sounded faint and distant, like the passing of many wheels upon a soft and sandy soil. It grew louder by degrees, till the grating of wheels and stamping of many human feet could be heard quite distinctly. All this amidst the dark silence of the night gave it a mysterious, almost unreal appearance.
Meir stood straight up and listened intently.
"What is that?" he asked.
"What can it be?" said Golda, in her quiet voice.
It seemed as if a great many carts were passing on the other side of the hill.
"I thought something rumbled and knocked inside the hill," saidGolda.
Indeed, it sounded now like human steps inside the hill, and as if some heavy weights were being thrown down. There was fear in Meir's face. He looked intently at Golda.
"Shut the window, and bolt your door," he said quickly; "I will go and see what it is!"
It was evident that he feared only on her account. "Why should I fasten either window or door? A strong hand could easily wrench them open."
Meir went round the base of the hill, and soon found himself on the other side. What he saw there filled him with the greatest astonishment.
In a half-circle, upon the sandy furrows, stood a great many carts laden with casks of all sizes. Around the carts a great many people were moving—peasants and Jews. The peasants were busy unload-the carts and rolling the casks into a cavern, which either nature or human hands had shaped in the hill.
The Jews, who were flitting in and out among the carts and looking at the casks, or sounding them with their knuckles, finally crowded round a man who stood leaning his back against the side of the hill, and a low-voiced, but lively discussion followed. Among the Jews, Meir recognised several innkeepers of the neighbourhood, and in the man with whom they conversed, Jankiel Kamionker. The peasants whose task it was to unload the carts preserved a gloomy silence. A strong smell of alcohol permeated the air.
The astonishment of Meir did not last long. He began to see the meaning of the whole scene, and seemingly had made up his mind what to do, as he moved a few steps in Jankiel Kamionker's direction.
He had not gone far when a huge shadow detached itself from a projection of the hill and barred the way.
"Where are you going, Meir?" whispered the man.
"Why do you stop me from going, Johel?" replied Meir, as he tried to push him aside.
But Johel grasped him by the coat tails.
"Do you no longer care for you life?" he whispered. "I am sorry for you, because you are good and charitable; take warning and go at once."
"But I want to know what Reb Jankiel and his innkeepers are going to do with the casks," persisted Meir.
"It does not concern you," whispered Johel. "Let neither your eyes see nor your ears hear what Reb Jankiel is doing. He is engaged in a big business; you will only hinder him. Why should you stand in his way? What will you gain by it? Besides, what can you do against him?"
Meir remained silent, and turned in another direction.
"What can I do?" he whispered to himself; with quivering lips.
Passing near Abel Karaim's hut, he saw Golda still standing at the window. He nodded to her.
"Sleep in peace."
But she called out to him:
"Meir, here is a child sitting on the floor asleep."
He came nearer and saw, close to the bench where he had been sitting, the crouching figure of a child.
"Lejbele!" he said, wonderingly. He had not seen the lad, who had quietly followed him and sat down close to him.
"Lejbele!" repeated Meir, and he put his hand upon the child's head.
He opened a pair of half-unconscious eyes and smiled.
"Why did you come here?" asked Meir, kindly.
The child seemed to collect his thoughts, and then answered:
"I followed you."
"Father and mother will not know what has become of you."
"Father sleeps, and mother sleeps," began Lejbele, rocking his head; "and the goats are sleeping," he added after a while, and at the remembrance of those, his best friends, he laughed aloud.
But from Meir's lips the slight smile had vanished.
He sighed and said, as if to himself:
"How shall I act? What ought I to do?"
Golda, with her hands crossed above her head, looked thoughtfully up to the starry sky. After a while she whispered timidly:
"I will ask zeide; zeide is very learned; he knows the whole Bible by heart."
"Ask him," said Meir.
The girl turned her head towards the dark interior, and called out:
"Zeide! What does Jehovah command a man to do, from whom the people have turned away because he will not act against his conscience?"
Abel interrupted his prayers. He was accustomed to his grand-daughter's inquiries, and to answer them.
He seemed to ponder a few minutes, and then in his quavering but distinct voice, replied:
"Jehovah says: 'I made you a prophet, a guardian over Israel! Hear my words and repeat them to the people. If you do this, I shall call you a faithful servant; if you remain silent, on your head be the woes of Israel.'"
The old voice became silent, but Meir listened still, with glowing eyes. Then he pointed into the dark room and said:
"He has said the truth! Through his mouth has spoken the old covenant of Moses, the one true covenant."
Tears gleamed in Golda's eyes; but Meir saw them not, so deeply was he absorbed in thoughts which fired his whole being. He gently bent his head before the girl and went away.
She remained at the open window. Her bearing was quiet, but silent tears one after another rolled down her thin face.
"They beheaded the prophet Hosea, and drove the prophet Jeremiah out of Jerusalem," she whispered.
At a distance from the hut, Meir raised his face to heaven:
"Rabbi Akiba died in great tortures for his convictions," he murmured.
Golda's eyes followed him still though she could see him no longer; and folding her hands, she murmured:
"Like as Ruth said to Naomi, I wilt say to the light of my soul:'Whither thou goest I will go; where thou diest, I will die!'"
In this way these two children, thoroughly imbued with the old history and legends of Israel, which represented to them all earthly knowledge, drew from them comfort and courage.
The day had scarcely begun to dawn when, in Kamionker's house, everybody, with the exception of the little children, was awake and stirring. It was an important day for the landlord of the inn, as it was that of the principal fair, which brought crowds of people of all sorts to the town. Both Jankiel's daughters, two strong, plain, and slatternly girls, with the help of the boy Mendel, whose stupid, malicious face bore the traces of Reb Moshe's training, were busy preparing the two guest rooms for the arrival of distinguished customers. Next to the guest rooms was the large bar-room, where, during the fair, crowds of country people were wont to drink and to dance. The servant pretended to clean the benches around the wall, and made a scanty fire in the great black stove, as the morning was cool and the air damp and musty. In Jankiel's room, the first from the entrance, the window of which looked upon the still empty market-square, were two people, Jankiel and his wife Jenta, both at their morning prayers.
Jankiel, dressed his everyday gabardine with black kerchief twisted round his neck, rocked his body violently and prayed in a loud voice:
"Blessed be the Lord of the world that he hath not made me a heathen!Blessed be the Lord that he hath not made me a slave! Blessed be theLord that he hath not made me a woman!"
At the same time Jenta, dressed in a blue sleeveless jacket and short skirt, bent her body in short, jerky motions, and in a voice much lower than her husband's, began:
"Blessed be the Lord of the world that he has made me according to his will!"
Rocking to and fro, she sighed heavily:
"Blessed be the Lord who gives strength to the tired and drives away from their eyes sleep and weariness!"
Then Jankiel took up the white tallith with the black border, and, wrapping himself in its soft folds, exclaimed:
"Blessed be the Lord who enlightened us with his law and bade us to cover ourselves with the tallith!"
He put the philacteries, or holy scroll, upon his forehead and wrists, saying:
"I betroth myself for ever, betroth myself unto truth, unto the everlasting grace."
Both husband and wife were so absorbed in their prayers that they did not hear the quick step of a man.
Meir Ezofowich crossed the room where Jankiel and his wife were praying, and the next, which was full of beds and trunks, where the two smaller children were still asleep, and opened the door of his friend's room.
There was as yet only a dim light in the little apartment where Eliezer stood at the window and prayed. He recognised his friend's step, but did not interrupt his prayers, only raised his hands as if inviting him to join:
"O Lord of Hosts, how long wilt thou be angry against the prayer of thy people?"
Meir stood a few steps apart and responded, as the people respond to the singer:
"Thou feedest them with the bread of stones, and givest them tears to drink in great measure."
"Thou makest us a strife unto our neighbours, and our enemies laugh among themselves," intonated Eliezer.
In this way the two friends sang one of the most beautiful complaints that ever rose from earth to heaven. Every word is a tear, every word a melody expressing the tragic history of a great people.
There were as different expressions in the faces of the two young men as their characters were unlike each other. Eliezer's blue eyes were full of tears, his delicate features full of dreaminess and rapture; Meir stood erect, his burning eyes fixed on the sky, and his brow contracted as if in anger. They both prayed from the depths of their hearts until the end, and then their formally united souls parted. Eliezer intoned a prayer for the Wise Men of Israel:
"O Lord of heaven! guard and watch over the Wise Men of Israel, their wives, children and disciples, always and everywhere! Say unto me Amen!"
Meir did not say Amen. He was silent.
The singer seemed to wait for a response, when Meir, slightly raising his voice, said, with quivering lips:
"Guard, O Lord, and watch over our brethren in Israel that live in sin and darkness, always and everywhere; bring them from darkness into light, from bondage to freedom! Say unto me Amen!"
"Amen!" exclaimed Eliezer, turning towards his friend; and their hands met in a hearty grasp.
"Eliezer," said Meir, "you look changed since I saw you last."
"And you, Meir, look different."
Only a week had passed over their heads. Sometimes one week means as much as ten years.
"I have suffered much during the week," whispered the singer.
Meir did not complain.
"Eliezer," he said, "give me 'More Nebuchim.' I came to you so early to ask for that book. I want it very much."
Eliezer stood with his head hanging down dejectedly.
"I no longer have the book," he said, in a low voice.
"Where is it?" asked Meir.
"The book which brought us light and comfort is no more. The fire has devoured it, and its ashes are scattered to the winds."
"Eliezer!" burst out Meir, "have you got frightened and burned it?"
"My hands could never have committed the deed; even had my mouth commanded it, they would not have obeyed. A week ago my father came to me in great fury and ordered me to give up the accursed book we had been reading on the meadow. He shouted at me, 'Have you that book?' I said, 'I have.' He then asked me, 'Where is it?' I remained silent. He looked as if he would have liked to beat me, but did not dare, on account of my position in the synagogue, and the love people bear me. He then ransacked the whole room, and at last found it under the pillow. He wanted to carry it to the Rabbi, but I knelt before him and begged him not to do so, as he would not allow me to sing any more, and would deprive me of people's love, and of my singing. Father seemed struck by my remark, for he is proud that a son of his, and one so young in years, holds such a position, and he thinks, also, that, when his son sings and prays before the Lord, the Lord will prosper him in his business, and forgive all his sins. So he did not take the book to the Rabbi, but thrust it into the fire, and, when it burned and crackled, he leaped and danced for joy."
"And you, Eliezer, you looked on and did nothing?"
"What could I do?" whispered the singer.
"I should have put the book on my breast, protected it with my arms, and said to my father, 'If you wish to burn it, burn me with it.'"
Meir said this with indignation, almost anger, against his friend.
Eliezer stood before him with downcast eyes, sad, and humbled.
"I could not," he whispered. "I was afraid they would deprive me of my office, and denounce me as an infidel. But look at me, Meir, and judge from it how I loved our Master; since he was taken away from me my face has shrunk, and my eyes are red with tears."
"Oh, tears! tears! tears!" exclaimed Meir, throwing himself upon a chair, and pressing his throbbing temples with both hands; "always those tears and tears!" he repeated, with a half-sarcastic, half-sorrowful voice. "You may weep for ever, and do no good either to yourself or to others. Eliezer! I love you even as a brother; but I do not like your tears, and do not care to look at your reddened eyes. Eliezer, do not show me tears again; show me eyes full of fire. The people love you, and would follow you like a child its mother."
Scolding and upbraiding his friend, Meir's eyes betrayed a moisture which, not wishing to betray, he buried his face in both hands.
"Oh, Eliezer, what have you done to give up that book? Where shall we go now for advice and comfort? Where shall we find another teacher? The flames have consumed the soul of our souls, and the ashes have been thrown to the winds. If the spirit of the Master sees it he will say, 'My people have cursed me again,'" and tears dropped through his fingers upon the rough deal table.
Suddenly he stopped his laments, and, changing his position, fell into a deep reverie.
Eliezer opened the window.
The sandy ground of the market-square seemed divided in long slanting paths of red and gold by the rays of the rising sun. Along one of these shining paths, towards Kamionker's house, came a powerful bare-footed man. His heavy step sounded near the window where the two young men were sitting. Meir raised his head; the man had already passed, but a short glimpse of the matted red hair and swollen face was enough for Meir to identify him as the carrier, Johel.
A few minutes later two men dressed in black passed near the window. One of them was tall, stately, and smiling; the other, slightly stooping, had iron-gray hair and a wrinkled brow. They were Morejne Calman and Abraham Ezofowich. Evidently they had not crossed the square, but passed along the back streets almost stealthily, as if to avoid being seen. Both disappeared in the entrance of Kamionker's house, where Johel had preceded them.
Eliezer looked up from the book which he had been reading.
"Meir," he said, "why do you look so stern? I have never seen you look so stern before."
Meir did not seem to have heard his friend's remark. His eyes were fixed upon the floor, and he murmured:
"My uncle Abraham! My uncle Abraham! Woe to our house. Shame to the house of Ezofowich!"
In the next room, divided from Eliezer's by a thin wall, loud voices and bustle were audible. Jankiel shouted at his wife to go away and take the children with her. Jenta's low shoes clattered upon the floor, and the suddenly-roused children began to squall. By degrees the noise sounded fainter and farther off. Then the floor resounded with the steps of men, chairs were drawn together, and a lively discussion in low but audible voices began.
Meir suddenly rose.
"Eliezer," he whispered, "let us go away."
"Why should we go away?" said the young man, raising his head from the book.
"Because the walls are thin," began Meir.
He did not finish, for from the other side of the wall came the violent exclamation from his uncle Abraham:
"I do not know anything about that; you did not tell me, Jankiel."
The mirthless, bilious cackle of Jankiel interrupted. "I know a thing or two," he exclaimed; "I knew that you, Abraham, would not easily agree to it. I shall manage that without your help."
"Hush!" hissed Calman. The voices dropped again to a whisper.
"Eliezer, go away!" insisted Meir.
The singer did not seem to understand. "Eliezer! do you want to honour your father, as it is commanded from Sinai?"
Kamionker's son sighed.
"I pray to Jehovah that I may honour him." Meir grasped him by the hand.
"Then go at once—go! if you stop here any longer you will never be able to honour your father again!" He spoke so impressively that Eliezer grew pale and began to tremble.
"How can I go now, if they are discussing secrets there?"
The voice of Jankiel became again distinctly audible:
"The tailor Shmul is desperately poor; the driver Johel is a thief.Both will be well paid."
"And the peasants who carted the spirit?" asked Abram.
Jankiel laughed.
"They are safe; their souls and bodies and everything that belongs to them is pledged to my innkeepers."
"Hush!" whispered again the phlegmatic, therefore cautious, Kalman.
Eliezer trembled more and more. A ray of light had pierced his dreamy brain.
"Meir! Meir!" he whispered, "how can I get away? I am afraid to cross the room; they might think I had overheard their secrets."
With one hand Meir pushed the table from the window, and with the other helped his friend to push through. In a second Eliezer had disappeared from the room. Meir drew himself up and murmured:
"I will show myself now, and let them know that somebody has overheard their conversation."
Then he opened the low door and entered into the next room. There, near the wall, on three chairs closely drawn together, sat three men. A small table stood between them. Kalman, in his satin garment, looked calm and self-possessed. Jankiel and Abraham rested their elbows on the table. The first was red with excitement and his eyes glittered with malicious, greedy light; the latter looked pale and troubled, and kept his eyes fixed on the floor; but nothing was capable of disturbing the smiling equanimity of Kalman. When Meir entered the room, he heard distinctly his uncle's words:
"And if the whole place burns down with the spirit vaults?"
"Ah! ah!" sneered Jankiel, "what does it matter? One more Edomite will become a beggar!"
Here the speaker stopped and began to quiver as if with rage or terror; he saw Meir coming into the room. His two companions also saw him. Kalman's mouth opened wide. Abraham looked threatening, but his eyes fell before the bold, yet sorrowful glance of his nephew, and his hands began to tremble.
Meir slowly crossed the room and entered into the next, where Johel stood near the stove staring absently at his bare toes.
Jankiel sent a malediction after the retreating figure; the two others were silent.
"Why did you bring us in such an unsafe place?" asked Kalman at last, in his even voice.
"Why did you not warn us that somebody might hear from the other side of the wall?" asked Abraham impetuously. Jankiel explained that it was his son's room, who did not know anything about business and never paid the slightest attention to what was going on around him.
"How should I know that cursed lad was there? He must have entered like a thief, through the window. Well!" he said, after a while, "what does it matter if he heard? He is an Israelite, one of us, and dare not betray his own people."
"He may dare," repeated Kalman; "but we will keep an eye on him, and if he as much as breathes a syllable of what he heard we will crush him."
Abraham rose.
"You may do what you like," he said impulsively. "I wash my hands of the whole business."
Jankiel eyed him with a malicious expression.
"Very well," he said, "in that case there will be all the more for us two. Those who risk will get the money."
Abraham sat down again. His nervous face betrayed the inward struggle. Jankiel, who had a piece of chalk in his hand, began writing on a black tablet:
"Eight thousand gallons of spirit at four roubles the gallon make thirty-two thousand roubles. These divided into three make ten thousand six hundred and sixty-six roubles sixty-six and one third kopecks. Six hundred roubles to each of the two, Johel and Shmul, and there remains for each of us ten thousand and sixty-six roubles, sixty-six and one third kopecks."
Abraham rose again. He did not speak, but twisted his handkerchief convulsively with both hands, Then he raised his eyes and asked:
"And when will it come off?"
"It will come off very soon," said Jankiel.
Abraham said nothing further, and without saying good-bye, swiftly left the room.
The large market-square showed signs of life. Long strings of carts and people began to arrive from all directions. Inside the houses and shops everybody was busy preparing for the day's business.
In Ezofowich's house the inmates had risen earlier than usual to-day. The part of the home occupied by Raphael and Ber with their families resounded with gay and lively conversation. Various objects of trade, with their corresponding money value, were mentioned. Sometimes the calculations were interrupted by remarks in feminine voices, which occasioned laughter or gay exclamations. Everything showed the peace and contentment of people who strove after the well-being of their families and lived in mutual confidence and harmony.
The large sitting-room smelt of pine branches, which were scattered upon the even more than usually clean floor. On the old-fashioned, high-backed sofa, before a table spread with fine linen, sat old Saul and sipped his fragrant tea. The huge samovar had been taken down from the cupboard and gleamed with red coals and hissed and steamed in the next room, where a large kitchen fire illuminated the long table and white, scrubbed benches. The steaming of the samovar, the great kitchen fire and fresh curtains everywhere, together with the unusual stir of all the inmates, showed distinctly that many visitors were expected and preparations made accordingly.
But it was yet early in the day, and Saul sat alone, evidently relishing the atmosphere of well-being and orderliness and the sounds of the busy life filling the house from top to basement. It was one of those moments, not by any means rare in Saul's life, when he realised the many blessings which the Lord had bestowed upon his house with which to gladden his old age.
Suddenly the door opened and Meir entered. The happy expression vanished from Saul's wrinkled face. The sight of his grandson reminded him of the thorn which lurked amidst the flowers. The very look of the young man acted as a false or stormy discord in a gay and peaceful melody. Trouble was depicted on his pale face, and his eyes looked indignant and angry. He entered boldly and quickly, but meeting the eyes of his grandfather, he bent his head and his step became slower. Formerly he was wont to approach his father and benefactor with the confidence and tenderness of a favourite child. Now he felt that between him and the old man there arose a barrier, which became higher and stronger every day, and his heart yearned for the lost love and for a kind look from the old man, who now met his eyes with a stern and angry face. He approached him timidly, therefore, and said in a sad, entreating voice:
"Zeide! I should like to speak with you about important business."
The humble attitude of the once favourite child mollified the old man; he looked less stern, and said shortly but gently: "Speak out."
"Zeide, permit me to shut the door and windows so that nobody hears what I have to say."
"Shut them," replied Saul, and he waited with troubled face for the grandson to begin.
After closing the door and windows Meir came close to his grandfather and began:
"Zeide! I know that my words will bring you trouble and sorrow, but I have nobody to go to; you were to me father and mother, and when in trouble I come to you." His voice shook perceptibly.
The grandfather softened.
"Tell me everything. Though I have reason to be angry with you, because you are not what I should like to see you, I cannot forget that you are the son of my son who left me so early. If you have troubles I will take them from you; if anybody has wronged you I will stand up for you and punish him."
These words soothed and comforted the young man.
"Zeide!", he said, in a bolder tone, "thanks to you I have no troubles of my own, and nobody has wronged me; but I have come across a terrible secret, and do not know what to do with it, as I cannot keep it concealed. I thought I would tell you, so that you, Zeide, with the authority of your gray hair, might prevent a great crime and a great shame."
Saul looked at his grandson half-anxiously, half-curiously.
"It is better people should not know any secrets or trouble about any; but I know that if you do not speak to me, you will speak to someone else, and troubles might come from it. Say, then, what is this terrible secret?"
Meir answered
"This is the secret: Jankiel Kamionker, as you know, zeide, rents the distillery from the lord of Kamionka. He distilled during the season six thousand gallons of spirits, but did not sell any as prices were low. Now prices have risen and he wants to sell; but he does not want to pay the high government taxes."
"Speak lower," interrupted Saul, whose face betrayed great uneasiness.
Meir lowered his voice almost to a whisper.
"In order not to pay the taxes Kamionker last night carted away all the spirits to the Karaite's hill, where his innkeepers from all parts came to bargain for it and buy it up. But he thought what would become of him if the government officials came down to visit the vaults and did not find the spirits—he would be held answerable and punished. Then he hired two people. Zeide! he tempted two miserable outcasts to—"
"Hush!" exclaimed Saul, in a low voice. "Be quiet; do not say a word more. I can guess the rest."
The old man's hands trembled, and his shaggy eyebrows bristled in a heavy frown.
Meir was silent, and looked with expectant eyes at his grandfather.
"Your mouth has spoken what is not true. It cannot be true."
"Zeide!" whispered Meir, "it is as true as the sun in heaven. Have you not heard, zeide, of the incidents that happened last year and last year but one? These incidents are getting more and more numerous, and every true Israelite deplores it and reddens with shame."
"How can you know all this? How can you understand these things? I do not believe you."
"How do I know and understand it? Zeide, I have been brought up in your house, where many people come to see you: Jews and Christians, merchants and lords, rich and poor. They talked with you and I listened. Why should I not understand?"
Saul was silent, and his troubled countenance betrayed many conflicting thoughts. A sudden anger toward the grandson stirred his blood.
"You understand too much. You are too inquisitive. Your spirit is full of restlessness, and you carry trouble with you wherever you go. I felt so happy to-day until my eye fell upon you, and black care entered with you into the room."
Meir hung his head.
"Zeide," he said sadly, "why do you reproach me? It is not about my own affairs I came to you."
"And what right have you to meddle with affairs that are not your own?" said Saul, with hesitation in his voice.
"They are our own, zeide. Kamionker is an Israelite, and as such ought not to cast a slur on our race; besides, they are our own, still more because your son, zeide, Abraham belongs to it."
Saul rose suddenly from the sofa and fell back again. Then he fixed his penetrating eyes upon Meir.
"Are you speaking the truth?" he asked sternly.
"I have seen and heard it all myself," whispered Meir.
Saul remained thinking a long time.
"Well," he said slowly, "you have the right to accuse your uncle. He is your father's brother, and from his deed shame and ignominy might come upon our house. The family of Ezofowich never did dishonourable things. I shall forbid Abraham to have anything to do with it."
"Zeide, tell also Kamionker and Kalman not to do it."
"You are foolish," said Saul. "Are Kamionker and Kalman my sons or my daughters' husbands? They would not listen to me."
"If they do not listen, zeide," exclaimed Meir "denounce them before the owner of Kamionka or before the law."
Saul looked at his grandson with flaming eyes.
"Your advice is that of a foolish boy. Would you have your old grandfather turn informer, and bring calamity upon his own brethren?"
He wanted to say something more, but the door opened to admit several visitors; they were Israelites from the country, respectable merchants or farmers from the neighbouring estates, arrived for the great fair. Saul half-rose to welcome his guests, who quickly stepping up to him, pressed his hand in hearty greeting, and explained that it was not so much business as the desire to see the wise and honoured Saul which had brought them to town. Saul answered with an equally polite speech, and asked them to be seated round the table, and without leaving his own seat on the sofa clapped his bony hands. At the signal a buxom servant girl came in with glasses of steaming tea, which filled the whole room with its subtle aroma. The guests thanked him smilingly, and then began a lively conversation about familiar subjects.
Meir saw that he would have no further opportunity of seeing his grandfather alone, and quickly left the room and went into the kitchen. This also was full of visitors, but of a different class from those in the pitting-room. Upon the benches by the wall sat some fifteen men in old worn-out garments; and Sarah, Saul's daughter, and Raphael's wife, Saul's daughter-in-law, conversed with them and offered tea or mead and other refreshments.
The men responded gaily, if somewhat timidly, and accepted the refreshments with humble thanks. Most of them were inn-keepers, dairy farmers, or small tradesmen from the country. Their dark, lean faces and rough hands betrayed poverty and hard work. The smallest expense for food during their stay in town would have made a difference to them. They went, therefore, straight to Ezofowich's house, the doors of which were always hospitably open on such days, as had been the custom of the family for hundreds of years.
The two women in their silk gowns and bright caps flitted to and fro between the huge fireplace and the grateful guests. Outside the house there was another class of visitors. Those were the very poorest, who had not come to buy or to sell at the fair, but to obtain some wine and food out of the charity of their wealthier brethren. To these the servant carried bread and clotted milk and small copper coins. The murmur of their thanks and blessings penetrated to the kitchen, where the two busy women smiled yet more contentedly, and produced more small coins from their capacious pockets.
In another part of the roomy kitchen stood the children of the house, pleased with their pretty dresses and coral necklaces, eating sweets. The elder boys listened to the conversation of the men, and a few of the younger children played on the floor. Close to this group sat the great-grandmother, Freida. Days like this conveyed to her clouded memory pictures of the past, when she herself, a happy wife and mother, looked after the comforts of her numerous guests. Her great-granddaughter had roused her earlier than usual to-day, and dressed her in the costliest garments, and now, before she would be led into the sitting-room to her chair near the window, they were completing her toilette. The black-eyed Lija fastened the diamond star into her turban; her younger sister arranged the pendants; another put the costly pearls around her neck and twisted the golden chain cunningly among the soft folds of her white apron. Having done this they smiled and drew back a little to admire the effect of their handiwork, or peeped roguishly into the great-grandmother's eyes and kissed her on the forehead.
The men sitting round the wall nodded their heads sympathetically, looked reverentially at the old lady, and now and then exclamations of wonder and pleasure at seeing her surrounded by such tender care escaped from their lips.
The other part of the house, which had been so lively early in the morning, was now silent and deserted. Meir crossed the narrow passage that divided the house, and opened the door of his Uncle Raphael's room, meeting his friend and cousin Haim upon the threshold. The youthful, almost childish face, surrounded by golden hair, looked beaming and excited.
"Where is Uncle Raphael?" asked Meir.
"Where should he be? He is at the fair, together with Ber, buying bullocks."
"And you, Haim, where are you going?"
But the lad did not even hear the question. Trilling a gay song, he had rushed off where the stir and lively spectacle of the fair attracted him.
Meir went out into the porch and looked around. The fair had scarcely begun, but in the midst of some forty carts he saw Ber discussing the prices of the cattle with the peasants. A little further on he saw Raphael standing in the porch of a house, surrounded by merchants, evidently talking and arranging business, as all their fingers were in motion. To approach these two men, who, after his grandfather, had the greatest, authority in the family, and engage them in private talk was impossible. Meir saw that, and did not even try.
The sight of the motley crowd, where everybody was engaged upon some business of his own, looked strange and unreal. His thoughts were so different from any of the thoughts that moved that bustling multitude.
"Why should it trouble me?" he murmured. "What can I do?" And yet it seemed to him impossible to wait in passive inactivity until a red glare in the sky should announce that the nefarious design had been accomplished.
"What wrong has the man ever done us?" he said to himself. He was thinking of the owner of Kamionka.
His dull, listless eyes rested on the porch of Witebski's house, and he saw the merchant himself standing and leisurely smoking a cigar. He was looking at the lively scene with the eyes of a man who had nothing whatever to do with it. The fact is, he dealt in timber, which he bought in large quantities, from the estates; therefore the fair had no special attraction for him. Besides, he considered himself too refined and thought too highly of his own business to mix with a crowd occupied with selling and buying corn or cattle.
Meir descended the steps and went towards Witebski, who, seeing him, smiled and stretched out a friendly hand.
"A rare visitor! A rare visitor!" he exclaimed. "But I know you could not come sooner to see the parents of your betrothed. We have heard how your severe grandfather ordered you to sit in Bet-ha-Midrash to read the Talmud. Well, it does not matter much; does it? The zeide is a dear old man, and did not mean it unkindly, just as you did not mean to do any wrong. Young people will now and then kick over the traces. Come into the drawing-room; I will call my wife, and she will make you welcome as a dear son-in-law."
The worldly-wise merchant spoke smilingly, and holding Meir by the hand, led him into the drawing-room. There, before the green sofa, he stood still, and looked into Meir's face and said:
"It is very praiseworthy, Meir, that you are bashful and shy of your future wife. I was the same at your age, and all young men ought to feel like it; but my daughter has been brought up in the world, where customs are somewhat different. She is wondering that she does not even know the fiance who is to be her husband within a month. I will go and bring her here. Nobody need know you are together. I will shut the door and window, and you can have a quiet talk together and make each other's acquaintance."
He was moving towards the door, but Meir grasped him by the sleeve.
"Reb!" he said. "I am not thinking of betrothals or weddings; I came to you on a different errand altogether."
Witebski looked sharply at the grave and pale face of the young man, and his brow became slightly clouded.
"It is not about my own affairs I have come to you, Reb—"
The merchant quickly interrupted:
"If it be neither your affair nor mine, why enter it?"
"There are affairs," said the young man, "which belong to everybody, and it is everybody's business to think and speak about them."
He was thinking of public affairs, but though he did not express himself in these words, he felt all their importance.
"I have come across an awful secret to-day."
Witebski jumped up from the easy-chair where he was sitting.
"I do not want to hear about any awful secrets! Why should you come to me about it, when I am not curious to know anything?"
"I want you, Reb, to prevent a terrible deed."
"And why should I prevent anything; why do you come to me about it?"
"Because you are rich and respected, and know how to speak. You live in peace and friendship with everybody; even the great Rabbi smiles when he sees you. Your words could do much if you only would—"
"But I will not," interrupted Witebski in a determined voice and with clouded brow. "I am rich and live in peace with everybody;" and lowering his voice, he added: "If I began to peer into people's secrets and thwarted them, I should be neither rich nor live in peace with anybody, and things would, not go so well with me as they are going now."
"Reb!" said Meir, "I am glad that everything is prospering with you: but I should not care for prosperity if it were the result of wrong-doing."
"Who speaks about wrong-doing?" said Eli, brightening up again. "I wrong no man. I deal honestly with everybody I do business with, and they are satisfied and feel friendly towards me. Thanks to the Lord, I can look everybody in the face, and upon the fortune I leave my children there are no human tears or human wrongs."
Meir bent his head respectfully.
"I know it, Reb. You are fair and honest, and carry on your business with the wise intelligence the Lord gave you, and bring honour upon Israel. But I think if a man be honest himself, he ought not to look indifferently upon other people's villainy; and if he do not prevent it when he can, it is as bad as if he had done it himself. I have heard that a great wrong is going to be done by an Israelite to an innocent man. I can do nothing to prevent it, and I am looking for somebody who might be able to save this innocent man from a great calamity."
Here a loud and jovial laugh quite unexpectedly interrupted Meir's speech, and Witebski patted him playfully on the shoulder.
"Well, well," he said, "I see what you are driving at. You are a hot-headed youth, and want to take some trouble out of your own head and put it into mine. Thank you for the gift, but I will have none of it. Let things be. Why should we spoil our lives when they can be made so pleasant? There, sit ye down, and I will go and bring your bride. You have never heard her play on the piano. Ah, but she can play well. It is not the Sabbath, and she will play and you can listen a little."
He said this in his most lively manner, and moved towards the door; but again Meir arrested his steps.
"Reb!" he said, "listen at least to what I have to say."
There was a gleam of impatience in Witebski's eyes. "Ah, Meir! what an obstinate fellow you are, wanting to force your elders to do or hear things they do not want to! Well, I forgive you, and now let me go and bring the young woman."
Meir barred the way
"Reb," he said, "I will not let you go before you have heard me. I have no one else to go to; everybody is occupied with business or visitors. You alone, Reb, have time."
He stopped, because the merchant laid his hand upon the young man's shoulder; he was no longer smiling, but looked grave and displeased.
"Listen, Meir," he said. "I will tell you one thing. You have taken a wrong turning altogether. People shake their heads and speak badly of you; but I am indulgent with you. I make allowance because you are young, and because I am not of the same way of thinking as the people here, and know that many things in Israel are not as they ought to be. I think it; but do not speak about it or show it. Why should I expose myself to their ill-feeling? What can I do? If it be the Lord who ordered it so, why should I offend Him and make Him turn against me? If it be people's doing, other people will come in time to set it right. My business is to look after my family and their well-being. I am not a judge or a Rabbi either; therefore I keep quiet, try to please God and the people, and be in nobody's way. These re my principles, and I wish they were yours also Meir. I should let you go your own way, and not give advice to you either; but since you are to be my son-in-law, I must keep my eye upon you."
"Rob!" interrupted Meir, whose eyelids quivered with suppressed irritation, "do not be angry with me or think me rude, but I cannot marry your daughter. I shall never be her husband."
Witebski turned rigid with amazement.
"Do we hear aright?" he said, after a while. "Did not your grandfather pledge you to her and send the betrothal gifts?"
"My grandfather agreed with you about it," said Meir, in a trembling voice; "but he did it against my wish."
"Well," said Witebski, with the greatest amazement, "and what have you to say against my daughter?"
"I have no feelings against her, Rob; but my heart is not drawn to her. She also does not care for me. The other day, when passing your house, I heard her crying and lamenting that they wanted her to marry a common, ignorant Jew. It may be I am a common, ignorant Jew, but her education likewise is not to my taste. Why should you wish to bind us? We are not children, and know what our heart desires and what it does not desire."
Witebski still looked at the young man in utter bewilderment, and raising both hands to his head, exclaimed indignantly:
"Did my ears not deceive me? You do not want my daughter—my beautiful, educated Mera?"
A hot flush had mounted to his forehead. The gentle diplomatist and man of the world had disappeared, only the outraged father remained.
At the same time the door was violently thrown open, and upon the threshold, with a very red face and blazing eyes, stood Mistress Hannah.
Evidently she had been at her toilette, which was only partly completed. Instead of her silk gown she wore a short red petticoat and gray jacket. The front of her wig was carefully dressed, but a loose braid fastened by a string dangled gracefully at her back. She stood upon the threshold and gasped out:
"I have heard everything!"
She could not say any more from excitement. Her breast heaved and her face was fiery red. At last she rushed with waving arms at Meir, and shouted:
"What is that? You refuse my daughter! You, a common, stupid Jew fromSzybow, do not wish to marry a beautiful, educated girl like my Mera!Fie upon you—an idiot, a profligate!"
Witebski tried in vain to mitigate the fury of his better half.
"Hush, Hannah, hush!" he said, holding her by the elbow.
But all the breeding and distinguished manners upon which Mistress Hannah prided herself had vanished. She shook her clenched fist close in Meir's face:
"You do not want Mera, my beautiful daughter! Ai! Ai! the great misfortune!" she sneered. "It will certainly kill us with grief. She will cry her eyes out after the ignorant Jew from Szybow! I shall take her to Wilno and marry her to a count, a general, or a prince. You think that because your grandfather is rich and you have money of your own you can do what you like. I will show your grandfather and all your family that I care for them as much as for an old slipper!"
Eli carefully closed the door and windows. Mistress Hannah rushed toward a chest of drawers, opened it and took out, one after the other, the velvet-lined boxes, and throwing them at Meir's feet, exclaimed:
"There, take your presents and carry them to the beggar girl you are consorting with; she will be just the wife for you."
"Hush!" hissed out the husband, almost despairingly, as he stooped down to pick up the boxes but Mistress Hannah tore them out of his hands.
"I will carry them myself to his grandfather, and break off the engagement."
"Hannah," persuaded the husband, "you will only make matters worse. I will take them myself and speak with Saul."
Hannah did not even hear what he said.
"For shame!" she cried out; "the madman, the profligate, to prefer the Karaite's girl to my daughter! Well, the Lord be thanked we have got rid of him. Now I shall take my daughter to Wilno and marry her to a great nobleman."
It was about noon when Meir left Witebski's house, pursued by the curses and scoldings of its mistress and the gentle remonstrances and conciliatory words of Eli. The fair was now in full swing. The large market square was full of vehicles of all kinds, animals and people, that it seemed as if nobody could pass or find room any longer. In one part of the square where the crowd was less dense, close by the wall of a large building, sat an old man surrounded by baskets of all shapes and sizes. It was Abel Karaim.
Though the day was warm and sunny, his head was covered with a fur cap, from under which streamed his white hair, and his beard spread like a fan over his breast. The sun fell upon the small and thin face, scarcely visible from under his hair, and the fur which fell over the shaggy eyebrows gave but little protection to the dim eyes blinking in the sunlight.
Close to him, slim and erect, stood Golda, with her corals encircling the slender neck, setting off the clear olive of her complexion, and her heavy tresses falling down her back. A few steps in front of these two stood long rows of carts full of grain, wood, and various country produce; between the carts bullocks and cows lowed, calves bleated, horses neighed and stamped, small brokers and horse-dealers flitted to and fro bargaining with the peasants. In this hubbub of voices, in midst of bargaining and quarrels, mixed with the shrill voices of women and squalling children, sounded the quavering voice of old Abel unweariedly at his task of reciting. The surging elements around did not distract him; on the contrary, they seemed to stimulate him, as his voice sounded louder and more distinct.
"When Moses descended from Mount Sinai, a great light shone from his face, and the people fell down on their faces and called out as in one voice: Moses, repeat to us the words of the Eternal. And a great calm came upon the earth and the heavens. They grew silent, the lightning ceased, and the wind fell. And Moses called the seventy elders of Israel, and when they surrounded him, as the stars surround the moon, he repeated to them the words of the Eternal."
At this moment two grave men, poorly dressed, came from the crowd and passed close by him.
"He is reciting again," said one.
"He is always doing so," said the other.
They smiled, but did not go further. An old woman and some younger people joined them. The woman stood listening and asked:
"What is it he is telling?"
"The history and the covenant of the Israelites," replied Golda.
The young people opened their mouths, the woman drew nearer, the men smiled, but all stood still and listened.
"When the people heard the commandments of the Lord, they called out as in one voice: We will do all that the Lord commands. And Moses erected twelve stones against the Mountain of Sinai, and said unto the people: Keep therefore the words of this covenant; your captains of your tribes, your elders, and your officers, with all the men of Israel."
"Your little ones, your wives, and the stranger that is in thy camp, from the hewer of thy wood unto the drawer of thy water."
"He says beautiful things, and speaks well," said one.
"And the hewer of thy wood and the drawer of thy water," repeated the two poorly dressed men as they raised their shining eyes to heaven. The woman, who had listened attentively, drew from her shabby gown a dirty handkerchief, and undoing one of the knots, deposited a big copper coin on Abel's knees.
A few more had joined the little group which surrounded Abel, Jews, Christians, and young people. These few had torn themselves from the noisy, haggling crowd, and listened to other words than those of roubles and kopecks—the sounds of the far past. It seemed almost as if Abel felt the attention of the people, and as if all these eyes upon him warmed his heart and stirred his memory. His eyes shone brighter from under the half-closed eyelids; the fur cap pushed at the back of his head, and the long white hair falling upon breast and shoulder, gave him the air of a half-blind bard who, with national songs, rouses and gladdens the spirit of the people. In a louder and steadier voice he went on:
"When the Israelites crossed the Jordan, Joshua erected two great stones, and wrote upon them the ten commandments. One half of the people rested under Mount Gerisim, the other half under Mount Ebal, and the voice spoke unto all men: He breaks the covenant of the Lord who worships false gods, he who does not honour his father and mother. He breaks the covenant who covets his neighbour's property and leads astray the blind. He breaks it who wrongs the stranger, the orphan, and the widow; he who putteth a lie into his brother's ear, and sayeth of the innocent, Let him die. And when the people of Israel heard it they called out, as if in one voice: All that thou commandest, we will do."
"Amen," murmured around Abel the voices which a short time before had haggled desperately over their small bargains. A peasant woman pushed through the little group, picked up one of the baskets and asked the price. Golda told her, after which the woman began to bargain; but Golda did not answer again, not because she did not want to, as rather that she did not hear the shrill voice any longer. Her eyes were fixed upon one point in the crowd, a hot blush suffused her features, and a half-childish, half-passionate smile played upon her lips. She saw Meir making his way through the crowd and coming near where she stood; but he did not see her. His face looked troubled and restless, and presently he disappeared within the precincts of the synagogue. This was almost as crowded as the market square, but not so noisy.
Meir went towards the dwelling of the Rabbi Todros; all the people were moving in the same direction. Close to the Rabbi's little hut the crowd was still denser; but there was no noise, no pushing, or eyes shining with the greediness of gain; a grave silence prevailed everywhere, interrupted only by timid whispers. Meir knew what brought the people here and where they came from. There were scarcely any inhabitants of Szybow amongst them, as these could always see the Rabbi and come to him for advice. They came mostly from the country around; some from far distant places. There was a slight sprinkling of merchants and well-to-do people, but the great bulk bore the stamp of poverty and hard work in their lean, patient faces, and upon their garments.
"Why should I go there?" said Meir to himself; "he will not listen to me now; but where else can I go?" he added after a while, and he again mixed with the crowd, which bore him onwards until he found himself before the wide-open door of the Rabbi's dwelling.
Beyond the door, in the entrance hall, people stood closely pressed together like a living and breathing wall; no other sound than their long-drawn breaths were audible. Meir tried to push his way through, which did not present much difficulty, for many of the poor people had been humble guests at Ezofowich's, and recognised Saul's grandson and made way for him. They did this in a quick, absent-minded way, their eyes being riveted on the room beyond; they stood on tip-toe, and whenever they caught a broken sentence, their faces glowed with happiness as if the honoured sage's words were balm for all the sorrows of their lives.
The interior of the room, which Meir beheld from the open door, presented a singular appearance. In the depth of it, between the wall and a table, sat Rabbi Todros in his usual worn-out garments with his cap pushed to the back of his head. The upper part of his body bent forward; he sat perfectly motionless except for his eyes, which roamed along the people, who looked at him humbly and beseechingly. There was a small space between the sage and those who stood before him, which none dared to cross without his permission. The whole scene was lighted up by the rays of the sun streaming in through the window, on one side; on the other by the lurid and fitful flames in the fire-place. Near the latter crouched the melamed, feeding the fire with fresh fuel and putting various herbs into steaming vessels.
Besides the function of apothecary he had also the office of crier. He called out the names of the people who, according to his opinion, were entitled to appear before the master.
He now raised his thick forefinger towards the entrance, and called out:
"Shimshel, the innkeeper."
The summoned man whose name, Samson, time and custom had transformed into Shimshel, did not in the least resemble his namesake, the Samson of history. He was slender and red-haired, and bent almost to the ground before the Rabbi.
"Who greets the Wise Man bows before the greatness of the Creator," he said in a timid, shaking voice. It was not only his voice which trembled, but all his limbs, and his blue eyes roamed wildly about the room.
Isaak Todros sat like a statue. His eyes looked piercingly at the little red-haired man before him, who, in his terror, had lost his tongue altogether.
"Well?" said the sage, after a lengthy pause.
Shimshel raised his shoulders almost to his ears and began:
"Nassi! let a ray of your wisdom enlighten my darkness. I have committed a great sin, and my soul trembles while I am confessing it before you. Nassi! I am a most unfortunate man; my wife Ryfka has lost my soul for ever, unless you, oh Rabbi, tell me how to make it clean again."
Here the poor penitent choked again, but gathering courage, proceeded:
"Nassi! I and my wife Ryfka and the children sat down, last Friday, to the Sabbath feast. On one table there was a dish of meat, on the other a bowl of milk which my wife had boiled for the younger children. My wife ladled out the milk for the children, when her hand shook and a drop of milk fell upon the meat."
"Ai! Ai! stupid woman, what had she done! She had made the meat unclean."
"Well, and what did you do with the meat?" The questioned man's head sank upon his breast, and he stammered:
"Rabbi, I ate from it, and so did my wife and children."
The Rabbi's eyes flashed with anger.
"Why did you not throw the unclean food on the refuse heap? Why did you make your mouth and the mouths of your family unclean?" shouted the Rabbi.
Shimshel choked again, and stopped. The sage, still motionless, asked:
"Nassi! I am very poor, and keep a small inn that brings but little profit. I have six children, an old father who lives with me, and two orphaned grandchildren, whose parents died. Rabbi it is difficult to find food for so many mouths, and we have meat only once a week. Kosher meat is very dear, so I buy three pounds every week, and eleven people have to keep up their strength, on it. Rabbi! I knew we should have nothing during the week, except bread and onions and cucumber. I was loth to throw that meat away and so ate from it, and allowed my family to eat from it."
Thus complained and confessed the poor Samson, and the master listened with clouded brows.
Then he spoke, transfixing the sinner with angry eyes. He explained in a long and learned speech the origin of the law of clean and unclean food. How great and wise men had written many commentaries about it, and how great the sin of a man was who dared to eat a piece of meat upon which a drop of milk had fallen.
"Your sin is abominable in the sight of the Lord," he thundered at the humble penitent. "For the sake of greediness you have broken the covenant which Jehovah made with his people, and transgressed one of the six hundred and thirteen commandments which every true Israelite is bound to keep. You deserve to be cursed even as Elisha cursed the mocking children, and Joshua the town of Jerico. But since it was only your body which sinned, whilst the spirit remained faithful, and you came to me and humbled and confessed yourself, I will forgive you, under the condition that you and your family abstain from meat and milk during four weeks, and the money saved thereby be distributed among the poor. And after four weeks, when your souls will be clean again from the abomination, you may dwell in peace and piety among your brethren Israelites."
"Say everybody Amen."
"Amen," called the people within the room and without, and those who pressed their eager faces against the window.
The little red-haired Samson, relieved of the burden that had oppressed his conscience, though otherwise burdened with a four-weeks' fast, murmured his thanks and retreated towards the entrance.
Reb Moshe again raised his finger and called out:
"Reb Gerson, melamed."
At his summons a round-backed, middle-sized man, with shaggy hair and clouded mien, appeared. He was a colleague of Reb Moshe, a teacher from a small town, where he enlightened the Israelitish youths. He stood in the middle of the room, holding a heavy book with both hands, After greeting the master, he began in these words:
"Rabbi! my soul has been in trouble, Two days ago my children read that evening prayers ought to be said until the end of the first watch. The children asked me: 'What is the first watch?' I remained mute, for I did not know how to answer, and I come to you, Rabbi, for a ray of wisdom to enlighten my mind. Tell me, oh Rabbi, what are the watches according to which every Israelite has to regulate his prayers. Where are they, so that I may give an answer to the children?"
The round-backed man stopped, and all eyes rested with excited curiosity upon the sage, who, without changing his position, answered:
"What should it be but the angels' watch? And where do they watch? They watch before the throne of the Eternal, when the day declines and night approaches. The angels are divided into three choirs. The first choir stands before the throne and keeps watch till midnight. Then is the time to say evening prayers. The second comes at midnight and keeps watch until dawn; when you see the sky turn rosy-red and pale-blue, the third choir arrives, and then it is time to say morning prayers."
The master stopped, and a low murmur of admiration and rapture was heard among the crowd. But the melamed did not retire yet; his eyes fixed upon his book he began anew: