"You, Meir, you were my pupil, and you can ask me about such things. Have I not told you a great many times that the best deed is acquiring depth in the holy science? To whom does that everything will be forgiven, and he who does not do that will be cursed and thrust out from the bosom of Israel, although his hands and heart are clean and white as the snow."

Having said this he turned to Saul and said, pointing at Meir with his brown finger:

"He don't know anything. He has forgotten everything I have taught him!"

The old man slightly bent his wrinkled forehead before the melamed and said in a conciliatory voice:

"Reb, forgive him! When wisdom shall come to him, then he will recognise that his mouth has been very daring, and I am sure he will be pious and scholarly, as were all the members of our family."

He drew himself up, and pride sparkled in the eyes which age had long dimmed.

"Listen to me, children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Our family—the family of Ezofowich—is not a common family. We—thanks to God, whose holy name be blessed—have great riches in chests and on vessels. But we have still greater riches in the records of our family. Our ancestor was a Senior, a superior over all the Jews living in this country, and very much beloved by the king himself. And my father Hersh, the famous Hersh, had the friendship of the greatest lords, and they drove him in their carriages, and for his surprising wisdom they took him to the king to the diet which was then held in Warsaw."

The old man became silent and looked around with eyes brightened with pride and triumph. The whole gathering looked on him as on a rainbow. The melamed became gloomy, and slowly sipped the wine from a big glass. The old great-grandmother, who was already slumbering, awakened at once, and peered with her golden eyes from behind half-closed lids, exclaiming in her soundless voice:

"Hersh! Hersh! my Hersh!"

After a while. Saul began to talk again:

"We have in our family a great treasure—such a treasure as has no equal in all Israel. This treasure is a long document, written by our ancestor Michael the Senior, and left by him, and in which there are written noble and wise things. If we could get that document of wisdom we should be happy. The only trouble is that we don't know where it is."

From the time Saul began to talk of the document left by his ancestor, among the many eyes looking at him two pairs sparkled passionately, with, however, quite contradictory sentiments. They were the eyes of the melamed, who laughed softly and maliciously, and the eyes of Meir who drew himself up in his chair and looked into his grandfather's face with burning curiosity.

"This writing," Saul said further, "was hidden for two hundred years and nobody has touched it. And when the two hundred years were ended, my father, Hersh, found it. Where he found it no one but our old great-grandmother knows."

Here he pointed to his mother, and then finished:

"And she alone knows where he hid that writing, but as yet she has told no one."

"And why did she tell no one?" laughed maliciously and softly the melamed.

Saul answered in a sad voice:

"Reb Nohim Todros—may his memory be blessed—has forbidden her to speak of it."

"And you, Reb Saul, why have you not searched for that writing yourself?"

Saul answered still more sadly:

"Reb Baruch Todros, the son of Reb Nohim and Reb Isaak—may he live a hundred years—the son of Reb Baruch, have forbidden me to search for it!"

"And no one dare search for it!" exclaimed the melamed with all his might, raising his hand armed with a fork, "nobody dare search for that writing, because it is full of blasphemy and filth. Reb Saul! You must forbid your children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren to search for that writing, and in case they find it they must give it up to the fire to be destroyed! For the one who shall find that writing, and shall read it aloud to the people—upon that one shall the herem fall. He shall be cast out from the bosom of Israel. Thus spake Reb Nohim and Reb Baruch—may their memory be blessed! Thus spake Reb Isaak—may he live a hundred years. In that writing is excommunication and great misfortune to the one who shall find it."

A deep silence followed those words, spoken with the greatest enthusiasm by the melamed, and amidst this silence was heard a long, trembling passionate sighing. All looked around, desiring to learn from whose breast proceeded that noise as of the tearing out of desire, but no one could discover whence it came. They only perceived that Meir, with rigid figure, pale face and burning eyes was gazing into the great-grandmother's face. She, feeling the piercing look of her beloved child, raised her wrinkled eyelids and said:

"Meir?"

"Bobe?" answered the young man, in a voice filled with caressing tenderness.

"Kleineskind!" whispered the great-grandmother and, smiling sweetly, she began to slumber again.

The Sabbath feast was near its end when an incident occurred which would have appeared very strange to any foreign eye, but was an ordinary sight to those gathered there.

Reb Moshe, whose dark cheeks burned from the effects of several glasses of wine hospitably poured out for him by the hosts, suddenly jumped from his chair and rushed to the centre of the room.

"Sabbath! Sabbath! Sabbath!"—he shouted, shaking his head and arms violently. "Fried! Fried! Fried!" he repeated—"the whole celestial family rejoices and dances in the Heavens! David danced and jumped before the Arch—why then should not the perfect pious gladden his heart by dancing and jumping?"

Therefore he danced and jumped around the table.

It would have been interesting for an observer to watch the different sentiments reflected in the faces of those present who looked at the ecstatic dance. Old Saul and his sons looked at the dancing figure with the greatest gravity and attention. Not the slightest quiver of a smile appeared on their lips. It seemed as though they looked on the melamed's crazy leaps as the believers look on the performance of a mystic but holy ceremony. Tallow-haired Ber sat stiff and dignified also, but he knit his brows almost painfully, and his eyes were cast on the ground. Meir leaned his head in the palms of both hands, and it seemed that he neither heard nor saw—or at least tried not to notice anything. But the women wondered at Reb Moshe's dance; they moved their bodies to the time beaten by the bare-footed man, smacking their lips and making signs of admiration with their eyes. At the lower end of the table, where the boys and girls sat, could be heard a soft noise, as of gigglings suppressed with effort.

Finally Reb Moshe's strength was exhausted, his body shivering with enthusiasm, fell to the floor near the big green brick stove. After a while, however, he rose, laughed aloud, and wiped with the large sleeve of his shirt, the perspiration bathing his forehead and cheeks.

Sarah, Saul's daughter, left the table and carried around a large silver basin filled with water, in which everyone washed his fingers. Whispering prayers of thanksgiving, those present dipped their hands in the water and wiped them on a towel suspended from Sarah's shoulder. The Sabbath feast was ended.

A few moments afterward the table was cleared off. The whole company, dividing itself into small groups, filled the room with the noise of loud and animated conversation. Meir, who for a few moments had stood alone by the window gazing thoughtfully into the darkness of the evening, approached the group composed of the oldest people, gathered in the most luxurious part of the room which was ornamented by an antique sofa. Here Abraham and Raphael, Saul's sons, and Ber, his son-in-law, reported to the father in reference to the business transacted during the week, and asked his advice and help. Here old Saul was in his proper field, for, although the high and wise studies of mystic scholars aroused in him respect and fear, it seemed that secular business affairs were more suited to his mind—he was more familiar with them. In his eyes, which were now shining with keen and animated thought, there were no more signs of old age, and only his white hair and beard gave him the appearance of a patriarch and dignitary, distributing among the members of his family advice, praise and judgments.

Meir stood indifferent before that group of people talking of losses and profits. It was clear that in such affairs he did not yet take a part, and that his fresh nature was not yet touched by the biting fever of profit. He looked with some surprise at the usually phlegmatic Ber, who at that moment seemed to be changed into another man. Relating to his father-in-law his business projects, and explaining to him the necessity of contracting a considerable loan with his wife's brother, he became animated, eloquent—almost vehement. His eyes burned, his lips moved with great rapidity, and his hands trembled.

Meir went away and joined another group where the melamed was a central figure. As usual he was leaning his elbows on the table, and spoke solemnly to the attentive listeners.

"Everything in the world—every man, every animal, every blade of grass, and every stone—has its roots in the country where the spirits live. Therefore the whole world is like a gigantic tree, whose roots are among the spirits. And it is like a gigantic chain, whose last links are suspended where live the spirits. And it is like a gigantic sea, which never dries up, because an inexhaustible stream of spirits is always pouring in and filling it up."

Meir left the group listening to the melamed and approached the window. There two young men, leaning their foreheads in their hands and in deep thought, were speaking of where it is written that a man who walks during a clear night and does not see his shadow will die the same year.

Meir looked around. In the next room the older women were speaking of their households, and how clever their children were. The young girls were seated in a corner, whispering, giggling, and humming.

From Meir's face it could be seen that he was not attracted by any of these groups of people filling the house. He was among his own people—among those who were nearest to him in blood and affection—but it might be said that he was in the desert, so lonely did he stand in the room, and so sorrowfully did he look around him. He went out. Descending the stairs leading from the piazza he passed the dark square, and entered the little house of Reb Jankiel.

After the large, clean, well-lighted, and comfortable rooms of his grandfather's home, the dwelling of Reb Jankiel, the possessor of the largest inn in Szybow, whisky merchant, and a member of kahal, seemed to Meir narrow, dark, dirty, and mean. The Sabbath feast was over. It never was long, for it was scanty and passed in gloomy silence, interrupted only by quarrelling and the biting remarks of the father of the family. It was known that Reb Jankiel was avaricious. He gathered much money, but he did not care for the comfort of the house, because he was seldom there, being busy with whisky distilleries, with dram-shops in the neighbouring villages, returning to the town only when religious affairs required his presence. His wife, Jenta, and two grown-up daughters conducted the business of the inn.

The appearance of riches in his house only occurred when Reb Jankiel received eminent guests, as the saintly Rabbi, with whom he was a great favourite, the colleagues of the kahal, or wealthy merchants. Cleanliness and gaiety were well-known virtues.

In the first room, which Meir entered through a door opening into the dark hall, only one little candle burned in a brass candlestick. The smell of the food, which was just cleared off the table, was here mingled with the mustiness of the dirty walls and the greasy exhalations from the smoky chimney. It was dark and dull here. From the other room, completely dark, sounded the loud snoring of the master of the house, who was already fast asleep. In the third small room, filled with beds and trunks, Meir perceived, by the light of a small lamp burning in the stove around which was suspended a quantity of cabbages, a woman who was rocking a cradle with her foot, and trying to lull to sleep a crying child. Meir greeted her, and she answered him in a friendly manner and continued to hum.

Behind the closed door could be heard the muffled sound of human voices. Meir opened that door and entered the room of Eliezer.

Eliezer the cantor and the possessor of that marvellous voice, was not alone. Around the table, lighted by a tallow candle, sat several young men, members of the Ezofowich family—the same who had eaten Supper with Meir. Meir breathed deeply, perhaps because the air was purer there than in the other apartments, or perhaps because he was among friendly figures, on which he liked to gaze, and which, seeing him, smiled in a friendly manner.

Eliezer raised his turquoise-like eyes to the face of the newcomer as he sat at the table.

"Meir!" he exclaimed in his musical voice. "Well?" answered his guest.

"You were impatient to-day, and said to the melamed things of which there was no necessity to speak. They told me of your dispute with him."

Meir looked sharply and a little ironically into the cantor's face.

"Eliezer, are you in earnest when you tell me that?" he asked slowly.

The cantor dropped his head.

"It was honest on your part, but it may cause you much trouble."

The young man laughed, but his laugh Was empty and forced.

"Nu!" said he with determination, "Let it come. I can't stand it any longer. I can't be silent and look and listen, while we are being made fools of."

"Child! child what can you do?" sounded from behind them in a lazy, drawling voice.

They all turned. It was the phlegmatic Ber who had entered during the conversation. Having thus answered the angry exclamation of the young man, he stretched himself on Eliezer's bed. It seemed that those present were accustomed to see him among them, for they showed neither the slightest impatience nor confusion. On the contrary, the conversation was continued. One of the young men, a relative of Meir's, half in doubt and in smiles, half in fear and seriously, began to repeat to the cantor the melamed's speech about En-Sof and the Sefirots, about the day of the Messiah, and the gigantic fish, Leviathan. Another asked Eliezer what he thought of a moral which taught that it was sufficient to study Mishma and Zohar in order to obtain pardon for evil deeds.

Eliezer listened silently. He did not answer for a long time; then he slowly raised his head and said:

"Read the Torah! There it is written: 'God is one, Jehovah! He is not satisfied with your sacrifices, singing, and incense, but he requires from you a love of the truth, to defend the oppressed, to teach the ignorant, and heal the sick, because these are your first duties.'"

The two young men opened their eyes. "Well!" they exclaimed, "then the melamed did not tell the truth!"

Eliezer was silent for a long time again. It was evident that he preferred not to answer, but the young impatient hands pulled him by the sleeve, asking for a reply.

"He did not tell the truth," he finally exclaimed timidly.

At that moment Meir put his hand on his shoulder. "Eliezer," said he, "you gave me the same answer two years ago, when you came back from the great city where you studied singing. Then you opened my eyes, which alone began to search for the truth, and you taught me that we are not true Israelites; that our faith was not the same that was given to us on Mount Sinai; that Judaism has grown muddy like water when a handful of earth is thrown into it—and that mud has blackened our heads and our hearts. Eliezer, you have told me this, and I have seen the light. Since that time I have loved you as a brother who helped me out of obscurity, but Since that time, I feel in my heart a great oppression and a great loneliness."

"Meir, Eliezer taught you, and Eliezer is silent—you, his pupil, commence to talk," said her, whose lazy words were tinged with irony.

"I wish I knew how to talk," exclaimed the young man, with sparkling eyes, "and what to do!"

And after a while he added, more softly:

"But I know neither how to speak nor how to act—only in my heart I bear a great hatred toward those who deceive us, and a great love toward those who are deceived."

"And a great audacity," drawled Ber, negligently stretched on the bed.

"Until now I have not had the audacity, but—but if I knew what to do, I would have it."

There was a silence for a few moments which was finally broken by Meir.

"Eliezer, you are happier!"

"Why?"

"You have been out into the broad world—you have seen its wisdom—you have listened to clever people. Ah! if I could but go out into the world!"

"Eliezer, tell us something of the great world," said one of the young men.

And in the eyes watching the cantor there was curiosity and a strange longing.

Of the youth of Szybow, Eliezer alone had been out into the world. This was because of his marvellous voice, to cultivate which he had been sent to a large city. Everything he had to say had been told to his friends long ago. It was not much, but such as it was they were willing to listen to it every day. How does a large city appear? How high are the houses there? What kind of people live in those houses, and how many among them are Israelites? Who are rich, and wear beautiful dresses, and are greatly respected among the people? And why are they respected? Is it because they are rich? No—in Szybow there are also rich merchants, and the Purices (nobles) care for them only when they need their money, and when they do not need money they despise them. The Israelites in the great city are respected because they have a great deal of knowledge, and they have studied not only Mishma and Gemara, but other different, beautiful, and necessary things. And why in Szybow is there not such a school where these things could be studied, and why do Rabbi Isaak and Reb Moshe say that these sciences are the wine-garden of Sodom and infidel flames, and that every true Israelite should avoid them?

"Eliezer, how do those big carriages run without horses, and who invented them so cleverly?"

"Eliezer, do all Israelites there live kosher?"

"Eliezer, what is said there of the Rabbis Todros?"

"They speak ill of them."

A great surprise! The Israelites in the broad world speak ill of the Todros; and they believe neither in En-Sof nor in the Sefirots and the whole Kabalistic science!

"And what do they say of the Talmud?"

"They say that this beautiful book, full of wisdom, was written by clever and saintly people, but it should be shortened and many things left out because these are quite different times, and that which was formerly necessary is now harmful."

Again great surprise! The Talmud should be shortened, because it is difficult to study Gemara, and it dulls the minds and memories of the children!

True! They remember how difficult it was for them to study Gemara, and how the melamed had cruelly beaten them because they could not remember it, and how on that account they grew weak physically and mentally, and the little Lejbele, the son of a poor tailor, remained forever stupid and sick for the same reason!

"And who shortened the Talmud, and made it easier to study?"

"It was done by the great and saintly Moses Majmonides, whom the Rabbis excommunicated."

The Rabbis excommunicated the great and saintly savant! Therefore the Rabbis could be unjust and bad. One must not always believe what they teach!

"What more has Moses Majmonides written?"

"He has written More Nebuchim a guide for lost ones—a wise and beautiful book, which, when one reads one is inclined to weep with tenderness and laugh with joy!"

"Eliezer, have you read that book?"

"Yes. I have it."

"Where did you get it?"

"A wise Israelite gave it to me. He is a lawyer in the large city."

"Eliezer, read us something from that book."

In that way was revealed to those naive minds, involuntarily longing for the sun and broad bosom of humanity,—even though the revelation was partial and chaotic—the phenomena and thoughts circulating in the waste spaces. The result of this was not the production of firm convictions, nor the spinning out of a guiding thread to another better life; but doubt entered their consciences and desire filled their breasts—the young eyes veiled with the sadness of the thought which began to feel its fetters.

It was quite late when, after a long conversation, the young men rose and stood opposite each other with pale faces and burning looks. After a time of silence, Meir said:

"Eliezer, when shall we stand up and cry with a powerful voice to the people, that they may open their eyes? Shall we always crawl in darkness, like the worms, covered with earth, and look on while the whole nation rots and chokes?"

Eliezer dropped his eyes, which were full of tears, and raising his white hands, he said in his harmonious voice:

"Every day before God I sing and cry for my people!"

Meir made a movement of impatience, and at that moment Ber, rising heavily from the bed, laughed in a gloomy manner.

"Sing and cry!" said he to Eliezer, "your dreadful father fills you with such fear that you will never be able to do anything else!"

Then he put his hand on Meir's shoulder and said:

"Only he is daring and will swim against the stream. But the water is stronger than a man. Where will it carry him?"

Leaving Jankiel's house, Meir perceived again in one of the rooms, the same as before, a woman sitting at the cradle of a sleeping baby. Now she was bent over, and with both elbows resting on the edges of the cradle, was slumbering. The light of the small lamp, burning in the stove, fell upon her and threw a purple glimmer on the old caftan which covered her bosom and shoulders. On her head she still wore the holiday cap with crumpled flowers, its red colour contrasting strangely with the yellow, wrinkled face with its low forehead and withered cheeks. She was not yet old but worn out, over worked, spent with fatigue. One glance at her was sufficient to tell that her life lay in the midst of work and humiliation, and that she was not refreshed by even one drop of happiness. Looking at her, it was not difficult to guess that she would not live—like Freida, wife of the heretic Hersh—until her hundredth birthday, and that she would not fall into the eternal sleep little by little, amidst those dear to her heart—the noise made by numerous children and grandchildren. Jenta, the wife of the greedy Reb Jankiel, was slain in spirit and worn out in body.

When the steps of the departing guests, which had for some time mingled with the snoring of several people fast asleep, became silent, Eliezer stood in the low door of his room and looked for a few seconds at his sleeping mother.

"Mother!" he called softly, "why don't you go to bed? Little Hajka is sleeping for a long time, and she will not cry any more. Mother, go to bed and rest."

The whisper of her son reached the slumbering Jenta. She raised her eyelids, turned her sad glance toward the tall youth whose white face shone in the darkness like alabastar, and—what a wonder—her small, half-closed eyes opened, and from the colourless eyeballs shone a light of joy.

"Eliezer, come here!" she whispered. The young man approached and sat on the edge of the bed.

"How can I sleep?" the faded woman whispered to him, "when I feel so miserable! Hajka is sick and at any moment she may cry, and if she would cry Jankiel would waken and be very angry!"

"Sleep mother," whispered back the young man. "I will sit here and rock Hajka."

The yellow, wrinkled face, with the big red rose over the forehead, bent and rested—not on the high dirty pillows—but on the lap of the sitting youth.

Eliezer put his elbow on the edge of the cradle, leaned his forehead on the palm of his hand and sat in thought. From time to time he moved the cradle with his foot, and hummed.

"Oj! My head, my poor head!" whispered in her sleep the yellow-faced woman, slumbering with her head in her son's lap.

"Oh, Israel! how poor thou art!" thoughtfully whispered the red lips of the young man watching by the cradle.

While this was passing in Reb Jankiel's house, a small, lively human figure rushed through the darkness, across the large school-yard toward the small house of Rabbi Todros, where it disappeared behind a small door.

The creaking of the door was answered from the interior of the house by a low, but pure voice:

"Is that you, Moshe?"

"I, Nassi! your faithful servant! the miserable footstool of your feet! May the angel of peace visit your sleep! May every breath of your nostrils be agreeable to you, as the sweet oil mixed with myrrh! And while you sleep, may your soul bathe with great delight in the streams of the spirits!"

The deep voice coming from the interior of the room situated beyond the small dark hall, asked:

"Where were you so long, Moshe?"

The man, who remained in the little hall, answered:

"I ate the Sabbath supper in the house of the Ezofowich. In that house they celebrate the Sabbath with great magnificence, and I go there often to keep my soul in great joy!"

"You act wisely, Moshe, in keeping your soul joyful during the Sabbath. But what news have you?"

"Bad news, Nassi! Among the roses and lilies an ugly worm crawls!"

"What worm?"

"A worm which is eating into our holy faith, and which may make of the Israelitish people a people of goims and hazarniks."

"And in whose heart crawls that worm?"

"It is crawling in the heart of Meir Ezofowich—grandson of the rich Saul."

"Moshe, have you seen this worm with your own eyes, and have you heard with your own ears? Speak, Moshe! On my head rests the burden of all souls which are in this community, and I must know all."



There was silence for a moment in the little hall The man who was humbly sitting there at the closed door of the saintly Rabbi was evidently gathering his thoughts and reminiscences. After a while he began to speak in his hoarse voice, in a sing-song manner.

"I have seen with my own eyes, and heard with my own ears. Meir Ezofowich has not celebrated to-day the Kiddish with the whole family, and he came home after Sabbath had already been with us for some time. And I asked him what he had been doing, and he told me that he had been defending the cabin of Abel Karaim and his grandchild, Golda, from assault."

He became silent, and the deep voice within the closed room said:

"He defended heretics, and violated the Sabbath!"

"He does not keep his soul joyful during the holy day of Sabbath."

"That teaching may be excommunicated! Israel must avoid it, and the Lord may not forgive it!" said the deep voice behind the door.

"He said that in the holy books of Israel there is nothing said of En-Sof and Sefirots, and that the Eternal does not command us to persecute heretics."

"Abominations pour from the mouth of that young man! Hersh Ezofowich's soul—his great-grandfather's soul—has passed into his body!"

"Nassi!" exclaimed Moshe, in a louder voice. An indistinct murmur from behind the door encouraged him to continue the conversation.

"He is going to search for the writing of Michael the Senior. I have seen that in his eyes. And he will find that writing, and when he finds it and reads it aloud to the people, the spirit of Israel will rise against your teaching."

There was a deep silence after those words, and then the bass voice resounded again:

"When he shall find that writing, then my heavy hand will rest on him and crush him into dust. Moshe, what did he do after supper?"

"He went to the house of Reb Jankiel, and talked with the cantor, Eliezer. I passed that way, and saw them through the window."

"Moshe, who else was there?"

"There were Haim, Mendel, Aryel, and Ber, Saul's son-in-law."

"About what were they talking?"

"Nassi, my soul entered into my ear as I stood by their window. They complained much that they are kept in great darkness, and that the true faith of Israel is troubled like water when a handful of mud is thrown into it. And Eliezer said that he complains of it before the Lord, singing and crying; and Meir said that it is not enough to sing and cry, but that one must shout with a great voice to the people, and do something so that they will become something quite different from what they now are."

"A family of vipers!" hissed the voice from behind the door of the cabin.

"Nassi, who are a family of vipers?" asked Moshe humbly

After a moment of silence, the answer came from the darkness:

"Ezofowich's family."



CHAPTER IV

A few months passed. A warm May day was ending in a bright, sweet-scented evening.

Not long before sunset two beings were walking through the narrow street surrounded by the poorest houses in town. One of these beings was a slender girl, the other was a snow-white she-goat. The she-goat went before, jumping at every moment in order to catch some herb growing here and there. She appeared to be adroit, full of pranks, and happy. The girl following was grave and thoughtful. It would be difficult to tell how old she was. She may have been anywhere from thirteen to seventeen. Although she was tall, she seemed childish, on account of the extreme thinness of her body. But her mien and the expression of her face denoted gravity and premature grief and sadness. At first glance she appeared to be homely. What charms she may have possessed were not enhanced by the poor dress made of faded calico, from beneath which appeared her feet, only half protected by heavy shoes. The flowing dress was buttoned at the neck, around which she wore a few strings of broken corals. Her face was thin and pale, contrasting sharply with the red colour of the beads. From beneath the thick eyebrows looked velvet-like eyes, and over the narrow forehead curled hair as black as ebony.

The whole person of this child, or woman, was a mixture of pride and wildness. Her walk was stiff, grave, and thoughtful, and she looked boldly into space. But at the more lively sound of human voices she stopped and dropped her eyes—not because she was afraid, but because it seemed that she much disliked meeting people. Only the presence of the she-goat did not cause her disgust; on the contrary, she looked after the animal attentively, and when the agile creature went too far, she called her with sharp, muffled exclamations. Reciprocally, it seemed that the goat understood her very well, and, obedient to her call, she returned to the girl with a questioning baa! At the end of the poor, narrow street, there appeared a small green meadow, fresh, pearled with the dew of May, and gilded with the sun. This was situated outside the town, surrounded on one side by a birch grove, the other side opening on large fields, beyond which, in the far distance, was seen a blue strip of the forest.

The girl slackened her steps, and having seized the animal by the horns, she stopped, and looked on the lively scene displayed on the meadow. At first the outlook appeared to be merely a tumultuous and chaotic mass of movement, composed of snow-white animals and variegated children on the green background. Only after a short while one could distinguish numbers of little girls driving from pasture several herds of goats.

The girls were full of play, and they hastened home. The goats were stubborn, and wished to remain on the meadow, so there was some fighting, in which the goats were victorious over the children. They escaped from the hands of their leaders, and jumped nimbly and quickly toward the hazel bushes.

The girls chased them, and, reaching them, they seized the animals by their long, rough hair, and then they were at a loss what to do next. Some of them called to their friends, busy and embarrassed also, for help; others crossed the way of their disobedient charges, and, when they were opposite them, they stretched out their arms; others shouted, and, falling on the ground, they rolled in the soft grass, bursting with laughter. These exclamations, calls, and laughter, mingling with the m-a-a-ing of the goats, were seized by the warm breeze blowing over the meadow, and carried through the gloomy streets of the town, over the large field, and in the remote depths of the grove. Through the golden air the small feet flitted and crossed each other, trampling the grass, and above them nodded the little heads covered with hair of all shades, from locks black as ebony to the curls of copper-red and flaxen-yellow.

The tall, grave girl, who passed with her frolicsome but obedient goat, looked indifferently at the noisy, animated scene. It was evident that neither the gaiety nor curiosity attracted her. As she had been walking, now she was standing grave and quiet. It seemed as though she was waiting for something. Maybe the disappearance from the meadow of these flitting heads and the exclamations of the children.

After a while the exclamations were united in one choir. It announced joy and universal triumph. At the end of long fights, chases, and efforts, the goats were finally subdued by the girls, and were now gathered in one group. Some of the children were holding the stubborn and rebellious animals by their short horns, dragging them with all their strength; while others, clasping their necks with both hands, accompanied them in their jumps; others, more courageous and strong, sat on the goats' backs, and, carried by their strange chargers, holding fast by the longest hair, they went at full trot toward the town. This cavalcade, tumultuous and noisy, squeezed into one of the larger streets, and disappeared in clouds of dust.

Now the green meadow was silent and deserted. Only a light wind rustled among the branches of birches and hazel trees, and the setting sun veiled it in transparent pink clouds.

The girl set her goat at liberty, walked quicker than formerly, and after a while reached the edge of the meadow. Then she stopped and looked in one direction with a sudden amazement of joy. This point was a thick birch trunk lying at the foot of the grove, and on this trunk sat a young man with an open book in his lap. The girl's amazement was short. With her eyes fastened on the young man's face, which was bent over the book, she crossed the whole length of the meadow, straight and light, and having stopped near the trunk on which he was sitting, she bent, seized his hand in both her swarthy hands, and raised it to her mouth.

Absorbed in his reading the man swiftly raised his head and looked in astonishment at the girl, quickly withdrawing his hand from her embrace and growing red with a warm blush.

"You don't know me," said the girl, in a voice which was muffled, but which trembled not one whit.

"No," answered the young man.

"But I know you. You are Meir Ezofowich, rich Saul's grandson. I see you often when you sit on the piazza of your beautiful house, or when, with that book, you pass the hill of the Karaims."

All this she said in a grave, steady voice, her figure drawn erect. In her face there was not the slightest sign of embarrassment or timidity nor the slightest blush. Only her large eyes became darker and shone with a warm light, and her pale lips assumed a soft and gentle expression.

"And who are you?" asked Meir softly.

"I am Golda, the grand-daughter of Abel Karaim, despised and persecuted by all your people."

And now her mouth trembled and her voice took on a gloomy tone.

"All your people persecute Abel Karaim and his grand-daughter Golda, and you defend them. Long ago I wished to thank you."

Meir dropped his eyelids. His pale face flushed.

"Live in peace, you and your grandfather Abel," he said softly, "and may the hand of the Eternal be stretched over your poor house—the hand of Him who loves and defends those who suffer."

"I thank you for your good words," whispered the girl.

In the meanwhile she slipped down to the grass at the young man's feet, and raising her clasped hands she whispered further:

"Meir, you are good, wise, and beautiful. Your name signifies 'light,' and I have light before my eyes every time I see you. Long ago I wished to find you and talk with you, and tell you that although you are a grandson of a rich merchant and I am a grand-daughter of a poor Karaim, who makes baskets, yet we are equal in the eyes of the Eternal, and it is permitted to me to raise my eyes to you and looking on your light, to be happy."

And in fact she looked happy. Only now her thin, swarthy face burned with a flame-like blush, her lips were purple, and in her eyes raised to the young man's face and filled with passionate worship stood two silvery tears.

Meir listened to her with downcast eyes, and when she was silent he looked up and gazed at her for a while and whispered softly:

"Golda, how grateful and beautiful you are!"

For the first time during her conversation with Meir, Golda dropped her eyes and mechanically began to pluck the high grass growing around her. Meir looked at her silently. The innocence of her heart was plainly manifested in her confusion, which caused him to blush, and a timid joy shone with double light from his gray eyes, which remained cast down.

"Sit beside me," said he finally, in a soft voice.

The girl rose from the ground and sat in the place indicated by him. She had recovered all her boldness and gravity. She was silent and looked at the youth who did not look at her. They were silent a long time. Silence was around them; only above their heads the tall birches rustled softly, and around the pond near by, which was grown up with osier, the whistling and carolling of the marsh-dwelling birds was heard.

Meir, who kept looking at the grass spread at his feet, was the first to speak:

"Why do you bring your goat so late to the pasture?"

Golda answered:

"Because I don't wish to meet the other girls here."

"Do they also persecute you?"

"They laugh at me when they see me, and call me ugly names, and drive me from them."

Meir raised his eyes to the girl, and in his glance there was deep pity.

"Golda, are you afraid of those girls?"

Golda gravely shook her head in negation.

"I have grown up together with fear," she answered. "It's my brother, and I am accustomed to it. But when I return home the old zeide asks: 'Have you met anybody? Have they annoyed you?' I can't lie, and if I tell the truth the old zeide is very sad and he weeps."

"Did zeide alone bring you up?"

She nodded her head affirmatively.

"My parents died when I was as small as that bush. Zeide didn't have any children, so he took me to his home and took care of me, and when I was ill he carried me in his arms and kissed me. When I was older he taught me to spin and read the Bible, and told me beautiful stories which the Karaims brought from the far world. Zeide is good; zeide is a dear old man—but so old—so old, and so poor. His hair is snow-white from great age and his eyes are red as corals from weeping. When he is making baskets I often lie at his feet and keep my head in his lap, and he caresses my hair with his old, trembling hand, and repeats: 'Josseyme! Josseyme!' (orphan)."

While thus speaking she sat a little bent over, with her elbow resting on her knee. She balanced herself softly, looking into space.

Meir was now gazing in her face as on a rainbow, and when she pronounced the last word, he repeated after her in a soft voice, filled with pity:

"Josseyme!"

At that moment, quite a distance behind them in the grove, was heard the bleating of the goat. Meir looked back.

"Your goat—will it not be lost in the forest?" he asked.

"No," answered the girl quietly. "She never goes too far, and when I call her she returns to me. She is my sister."

"Fear is your brother, and a she-goat your sister!" said the young man, smiling.

The girl turned her head toward the grove, and gave voice to a few short exclamations. Immediately there came from the thicket the sound of quick, racing steps, and among the green birch branches appeared the snow-white hairy animal. It stood still and looked at the two people sitting beside each other.

"Come here!" called Golda.

The goat approached and stood near her. Golda caressed the animal's neck, and Meir did the same smiling. The goat gave a short bleat, jumped aside, and in the twinkling of an eye was biting at one of the birches.

"How obedient she is," said Meir.

"She is very fond of me," said Golda gravely. "I brought her up in the same way that zeide did me. She was a little kid when zeide brought her home and made me a present of her. I used to carry her in my arms and feed her with my hands, and when she was sick I sang to her, as zeide used to sing to me."

In speaking thus she smiled, and the smile gave her a childish appearance. She looked not more than fourteen years old.

"Would you like to have another little kid?" asked Meir.

"Why not?" she answered. "I would like it very much. When zeide shall sell a great many baskets, and I shall spin much wool we will buy another little kid."

"For whom do you spin the wool?"

"There are some good women who help me in that way. Hannah, Witebski's wife, your aunt Sarah, Ber's wife, give me wool to spin and then they pay me with copper—sometimes with silver money."

"Then you sometimes come to our house to take the wool for spinning from Sarah, Ber's wife?"

"Yes."

"And why have I never seen you?"

"Because they wish me to come secretly. Ber and his wife Sarah are very good-hearted people, but they don't wish anyone to know that they help us. I come to see them when there is nobody in the house except Lijka, your cousin, and I try to slip in in such a way that the black man could not see me."

"Whom do you mean by the 'black man'?" asked Meir in astonishment.

"Rabbi Isaak Todros!" answered Golda softly—almost in a whisper.

At the sound of that name pronounced by Golda, Meir's face, formerly beaming, full of pity, blushing with emotion, quivered nervously. He grew suddenly silent and looked into space with eyes filled with gloomy lights. He became so thoughtful that a deep line appeared on his white forehead. It seemed to him that he had forgotten that he was not alone.

"Meir," sounded in a soft voice, close to his shoulder, "of what are you thinking, and why have your eyes become so sad? Your name means 'light.' The sun of joy—does it not shine always for you?"

The young man, without changing the direction of his glance, shook his head.

"No," he answered, "there is a deep sorrow in my heart."

The girl bent toward him.

"Meir," she exclaimed, "and from where does this sorrow come to your heart?"

He was silent for a while, and then answered softly:

"From the fact that there are black people among us, and such darkness—such darkness!"

The girl dropped her head, and repeated like a sad echo:

"Ah! Such darkness!"

Meir continued to look into space, toward where a long strip of the forest separated the golden valley from the purple sky.

"Golda!" he said softly.

"What, Meir?"

"Did you never wish to see and know what there is beyond that thick, high forest—what is going on in the broad world?"

The girl was silent. From her attitude—her body bent toward the young man, her wide-open eyes full of fire—it could be seen that when she could look at him she did not wish to see anything else in the broad world.

But Meir spoke further:

"I would like to borrow wings from a bird, in order to go beyond that forest—to fly far away!"

"Don't you like the beautiful house of the rich Saul? Don't you like the faces of your brothers, relatives, and friends, that you wish for the wings of a bird to fly away?" whispered the girl, with stifled grief or fright.

"I like the home of Saul, my grandfather," whispered the thoughtful youth, "and I love my brothers and all my relatives; but I would like to fly beyond that forest in order to see everything and become very wise, and then return here and tell to those who are walking in darkness and wearing chains, what they should do in order to leave the darkness and throw off the chains."

After a time of silence he spoke further.

"I should like to know how the stars are fixed and how the planets grow, and how all the nations of the world live, and what kind of a sacred book they have. I would like to read their books, and learn from them God's thought and human lot, in order that my soul might become filled with science as the sea is filled with water."

Suddenly he stopped, and his voice broke with a sigh of inexpressible longing and insatiable desire. Again he was silent for a while, and then added softly:

"I would like to be as happy as was Rabbi Akiba."

"And who was Rabbi Akiba?" asked Golda shyly.

Meir's thoughtful eyes lit up and shone.

"He was a great man, Golda. I read his story often, and I was reading it again when you came."

"I know a great many beautiful stories," said Golda; "they grow in my soul, like red, fragrant roses! Meir, give me one more such rose that it may shine for me when I may not see you."

Their looks met and a soft smile played about Meir's mouth.

"Do you understand Hebrew?"

She hastily nodded in the affirmative.

"Yes, I understand. Zeide taught me." Meir turned a few pages of the book which his lap and read aloud:

"Kolba Sabua was a rich man. His palaces were high as mountains and his dresses shone with gold. In his gardens grew fragrant cedars, palms with large leaves, and there bloomed sweet scented roses of Sharon."

"But more beautiful than the high palaces, than the fragrant cedars and crimson roses, more beautiful than all the maidens in Israel was his daughter, young Rachel."

"Kolba Sabua had as many herds as there were stars in the heavens, and these herds were watched by a poor youth who was tall, like a young cedar, and his face was pale and sad, as it is with a man who wishes to free his soul from the darkness, but cannot."

"The name of that youth was Joseph Akiba, and he lived on a high mountain on which the herds of his master grazed."

"And it happened once upon a time, that the beautiful Rachel came to her father, threw herself on the ground before him, kissed his feet, and wept bitterly; then she spoke: 'I want to marry Akiba and live in that little cabin which stands on the summit of the mountain, and in which he lives.'"

"Kolba Sabua was a proud man, and his heart was hard. He became very angry with his daughter, the beautiful Rachel, and forbade her to think of that young man."

"But the beautiful Rachel left the high palace, and taking with her only her dark eyes, which shone like big diamonds, and her dark tresses, which were raised over her head like a crown. And she went on the high mountain to the little cabin, and said, 'Akiba, behold your wife, who enters into your house!'"

"Akiba was joyful, and he drank from Rachel's eyes her diamond-like tears, and then began to tell her many beautiful things. Wise words poured like honey from his lips, and she listened and was happy, and said, 'Akiba, you shall be a great star, which shall shine over Israel's roads.'"

"Kolba Sabua was a proud man, and his heart was hard. He sent to his daughter on the high mountain neither food nor clothing, and said, 'Let her become acquainted with hunger, and let her see misery.'"

"And the beautiful Rachel saw misery, and became acquainted with hunger. There were days when she had nothing to put into Akiba's mouth, and thought that her husband must go hungry."

"Akiba spoke, 'No matter that I am hungry,' and then he told her wise things, but she descended the high mountains, went to the town, and cried, 'Who will give me a measure of millet-seed for the dark crown which I wear on my head?' And they gave her a measure of millet-seed, and took her dark crown from her forehead, which was more beautiful than diamonds."

"She returned to the mountains, to the little cabin, and said, 'Akiba, I have some food for your mouth, but your soul is hungry, and for it I cannot get food! Go into the world and nourish your soul with great wisdom which flows from the mouths of wise people. I will remain here. I will sit at the threshold of the house; I will spin wool, and take care of the herds, ad look on the road by which you will return, like the sun which returns to the sky to chase away the darkness of the night.'"

"And Akiba went."

Here the voice of the young man became silent, and he cast his eyes on the leaves of the book, for near his shoulder was heard a voice full of astonishment.

"Akiba went?" asked Golda, and her eyes were widely opened, and the breath seemed to stop in her breast.

"Akiba went," repeated Meir, and began to read farther.

"The beautiful Rachel sat at the threshold of the house, span the wool, took care of the herds, and looked at the road by which he must return, shining with great wisdom."

"Seven years passed, and there came an evening when the moon at her full pours on the earth a sea of silvery light, and the trees and herbs stand still and do not move, as though the spirit of the Eternal breathed on them, and brought to the world peace and tranquillity."

"That evening, from behind the mountains, a tall pale man appeared. His feet trembled like leaves when the wind shakes them, and his hands from time to time were raised to the heavens. And when he saw the small, poor cabin, a stream of tears flowed from his eyes—for it was Akiba, the husband of the beautiful Rachel."

"Akiba stopped at the open window, and listened to the talk that was going on within. His wife, Rachel, was talking with her brother, whom her father sent to her. 'Return to Kolba Sabua's house,' spoke her brother, and she answered, 'I am waiting for Akiba, and taking care of his house.' The brother spoke, 'Akiba will never return—he has left you, and he is a disgrace to you.' She answered, 'Akiba has not left me. I, myself, sent him to the fountain of wisdom, that he might drink from it.' 'He drinks from the fountain of wisdom, and you bathe yourself in tears, and your flesh dries from misery!' 'Let my eyes flow out with my tears, let my flesh be eaten with misery, I shall watch the house of my husband. And if that man, for whom I fed love in my heart, shall come back to me and say, 'Rachel, I come back to you that you may not weep any more, but I have not drunk enough from the fountain of wisdom,' I would say to him, 'Go and drink more.''"

"The pale traveller, who stood at the window, which was open, became still paler, and trembled still more when he heard what Rachel said. He left the small cabin, and returned whence he came."

"Again seven years passed by. And there came a day when the sun pours streams of golden brightness, and the trees rustle, and the flowers blossom, and the birds sing, and the people laugh, as though the spirit of the Eternal breathed on them, and brought to them life and joy."

"On the road which led up the mountain to the shepherd's little cabin a great crowd of people was roaring. Amidst them a tall man was walking. His face shone like the sun with great wisdom, and from his mouth fell words sweet as honey and fragrant as myrrh. People bowed low before him, seizing every word, and crying with great love to him, 'Oh, Rabbi!'"

"But through the crowd of people a woman rushed, and falling on the ground, she seized the master's knees. She still held a spindle in her hand. She was covered with rags; her face was thin and her eyes deeply sunken, for during fourteen years they had flowed with tears."

"'Go away, you beggar!' the people shouted to her, but the master raised her from the ground and pressed her to his breast; for the man was Joseph Akiba, and the woman was his wife Rachel."

"'Behold the fountain which supplied my sad heart with the drink of hope, when my head was in the depths of great loneliness and work.'"

"Thus spake the master to the people, and wished to place on Rachel's head a crown of gold and pearls."

"'Thou, Rachel,' said he, 'hast taken from thy head thy beautiful hair, in order to nourish my hungry mouth. Now I will ornament thy forehead with a rich garland.'"

"But she stopped his arm, and raising to him her eyes, which had again become as beautiful as of yore, she said to him, 'Rabbi, your glory is my crown.'"

The young man finished the story, and turned his eyes on the girl sitting beside him.

Golda's face was all aflame, and her eyes were full of tears.

"Do you find my story beautiful?" asked Meir. "Yes; beautiful indeed!" she answered, and with her head leaning on the palm of her hand she balanced her slender figure to and fro for a while, as if under the influence of ecstasy and drowsiness. Suddenly she grew pale, and drew herself up.

"Meir," she exclaimed, "if you were Akiba, and I the daughter of the rich Kolba Sabua, I would do for you the same as the beautiful Rachel did for him!"

She seized her superb tresses, black as ebony, which hung carelessly down her back, and twisting it around her head, she said:

"I have exactly the same black crown as Rachel!" Then she raised her deep, fiery eyes to Meir, and said boldly, gravely, without a smile, blush, or exaltation:

"Meir, for you I would take my eyes out of my head! I would not have any use for them if I could not look at you."

A strong flush covered the young man's face, but it was not mere bashfulness, but emotion. The girl was so naive—so wild, and at the same time so beautiful, with her luxuriant, dishevelled tresses piled above her forehead, and with passionate words on her grave and daring lips.

"Golda," said Meir, "I will come to your house and pay a visit to your old grandfather."

"Come," said she; "with you there will enter into our house a great light."

The sun had almost set behind the high scarlet and purple clouds. A little pond shone from beyond the high osiers. In that direction Golda's looks went, and stopped at the water and surrounding bushes.

"Why are you looking at the pond?" asked Meir, who could no longer keep his eyes from the girl's face.

"I would like to get as many as I could of those branches growing over there," answered the girl.

"What for?"

"I would carry them home. Zeide makes baskets of them, then he sells them in the market and buys bread, and sometimes fish. For a long time zeide has had no willow to make baskets, and he grieves."

"Why don't you take them if you need them?"

I am not permitted.

"Why not? Everyone from the town may cut the branches. This meadow and that grove belong to the whole community of Szybow."

"It doesn't matter; I am not permitted. We don't believe in the Talmud; we don't light candles on the Sabbath—nothing is allowed us."

Meir rose suddenly.

"Come," said he to Golda, "I will be with you, and you may cut as many branches as you like. Don't be afraid of anything."

Golda's face shown with joy. She took from Meir's hand a jack-knife and rushed toward the pond. Now, when she felt safe under the protection of a strong arm, when there was hope of giving pleasure to the old grandfathers she lost the gravity which gave her the appearance of a matured woman. She ran along, looking from time to time at Meir who followed her, calling her she-goat, who turned toward her from the opposite side of the meadow. They stopped on the shore. The most flexible willow grass grew in the water, a few steps from the bank. In the twinkling of an eye Golda threw off her low shoes, and rolling up her dress she entered the water. Meir remained on the shore and watched the girl, as raising her arms, she began to swiftly cut the pliable branches. In the mean time she laughed, and her parted lips disclosed rows of teeth as white and beautiful as pearls. The glare of the last dazzling rays bathed her swarthy face with a pinkish light, and gilded the black crown of hair twined above her brow.

Meir did not lose sight of her, and smiled also. Suddenly Golda set up a cry.

"What is the matter?" asked Meir.

From the green thicket, in which the girl's figure was hidden, a joyful voice resounded.

"Meir, what beautiful flowers are here!"

"What flowers?"

The tall figure thrust aside the green bushes, bent toward the shore, and stretching out her arm handed the young man a broad-leaved yellow pond lily. Meir bent over a little in order to reach the flower, but all at once Golda's arm trembled, her pink, face grew pale, and her eyes dilated with dread.

"The black man!" she whispered, dropping the flower, and with a soft exclamation of fear she retreated and hid herself in the willow copse.

Meir looked behind him. Some distance off he saw emerging from the grove, and passing swiftly across the meadow, a strange figure walked swiftly. It was a medium-sized man, very thin, with a dark face, gray hair and a dark, dullish beard falling to his waist. He was robed in a long dress made of rough woven cloth, and his yellow, bare neck was thrust from an open shirt of rough material. He stooped in the shoulders and his steps were noiseless, as he wore low, woven slippers. In either hand he carried a big bunch of variegated herbs. When that man, without looking at Meir, passed him at a distance, the youth mechanically bent low his head in sign of humility and reverence Soon, however, he raised it. His face was pale, and expressed suppressed grief. He looked gloomily at the black figure passing swiftly across the meadow, and through his teeth set in either grief or anger, he said:

"Rabbi Isaak Todros!"



CHAPTER V

Rabbi Isaak Todros' appearance, and also his spiritual development, perhaps, were expressive characteristics of several centuries of long sojourn of his ancestors in Spain.

Wandering people, although astonishingly perseverant and conservative of marks distinguishing them from other nations, still by the inevitable influence of nature, draw here and there something from the different skies under which the lot of the exile scattered them.

Among the common characteristics of Israelites, however, there can be seen great differences. There are among them people but recently arrived from the South and West, and again there are others over whose head a pale sky has stretched and a cold wind has blown for centuries. There are among them phlegmatic natures, and also ardent mystical ones, and others redolent of reality. Some of them have hair black as the darkest raven wing—others have eyes the colour of the sky. There are among them white and also swarthy foreheads; strong, hardy natures, and others nervous, quivering with passion, imbued with dreaming, and consumed with fanciful ideals.

The swarthiest among the swarthy faces, the darkest of dark hair, the most passionate among the fiery spirits belonged to Isaak Todros.

What precise position did he occupy in the community, and on what was it based? He was not a priest; rabbis are not priests, and perhaps there is no other nation, as distant by its nature from theocratic government as are the Israelites. Neither was he the administrator of the community, because the members of the kahal took charge of its civil affairs; rabbis, while being members of the kahal, possessed only the role of warden of religion in respect to its rules and rites. He possessed a dignity higher than that, however. He was the descendant of an old princely house and among his ancestors he counted many scholars, pious and revered rabbis, and he was perfectly pious himself—consequently cadek and hahamen, ascetic, almost a miracle-worker, and a deeply, supernaturally learned man. Of course, saying that he was a learned man refers only to religious erudition, but in the eyes of the community of Szybow this was the only learning.

This scholarship embraced the incomparable knowledge of sacred books; Torah or the Bible, as little as possible—more of the Talmud, and most of Kabala.

Isaak Todros was the most able Kabalist of modern times, and it constituted the corner-stone upon which was built his greatness. Someone not familiar with the faith of the plebeian Israelites would suppose that the population of Szybow was a branch of a numerous gloomy sect of Hassid, which puts at the head of all religious and secular learning, the Kabala. No; the inhabitants of Szybow did not consider themselves heretics. On the contrary, they were proud of being orthodox Talmudists and Rabbinists. But they belonged to those, numerous in the lowest stratum of Talmudists, who joined Kabala to the Torah and Talmud, recognised it as a holy book, and became passionately fond of it, setting it in the shadow of the two first books.

And then Hassidism touched the Hebrew population of Szybow and left deep traces. In fact the greater part of the population was Hassidish without knowing it. Tradition said that Isaak Todros' ancestor, that Reb Nohim who had waged a battle of ideas with Hersh Ezofowich, was for some time a pupil of Besht, the founder of that curious sect. He saw him often, and although he did not join the sect entirely, he grafted some of its ideas into the community of which he was the spiritual leader.

The principal characteristics of the sect were: a boundless respect for Kabala, an almost idolatrous worship of Cadeks and a deep, pious and unshakeable aversion toward Edomites (foreign nations) and their lores.

These principles multiplied and branched out under the teaching of Nohim's son, Baruch, and his grandson Isaak seized the dignity held by his ancestors during the period of their rule. Therefore the religion of the inhabitants was neither Mosaism, nor Talmudism, nor Hassidism, but it was a chaotic mixture of all three which prevailed for the space of a number of miles around Szybow, and the highest expression of which was found in the person of the Rabbi of Szybow.

Rabbi Isaak had a swarthy forehead, furrowed deeply by lines of strained thought in trying to penetrate the mystery of Heaven and earth by a combination of letters, composed of the name of God and the Angels. Therefore in his coal-black eyes were gloomy lights which sometimes became ecstatic when they contemplated the incomparable delights of the supernatural world. His back was bent from the continual reading of books, arid his hand shook with excitement caused by the perpetual state of emotion in which his mind was kept; his body was thin from spiritual torments and physical mortifications.

Celibacy, fasting and sleepless nights were written in the dark face of the man, as well as his mystical ecstasies, secret dread and merciless hatred of everyone who lived, believed and desired differently from himself.

When he was young he had married—or rather they had married him—before the slightest sign of a beard had appeared on his cheeks, but he soon divorced his wife, because, by her continual bustling activity she troubled his pious thought and spiritual raptures. His three children were brought up in his brother's house, and he himself lived the life of an anchorite in the little cabin—a life of fancy strained to the utmost, of passionate prayers and unfathomable mystic contemplations. Such was his spiritual life.

His physical life was sustained by gifts sent him by his zealous admirers. But those gifts were small and common. Rabbi Isaak did not accept great and costly presents—he even refused to accept remuneration for the advice, medicines and prophecies which he gave to the faithful who came to him.

But every day before sunrise some bashful figures glided through the school-yard, and placed on the wooden bench standing near the window of the house some earthen dishes with food—slices of bread or holiday cake.

At that time the Rabbi usually recited his morning prayers, for it was that moment at which white could be distinguished from blue, which is the time that every faithful Israelite should recite the morning Tefils and Shems.

Then he opened his window and contemplated the pink glow of the dawn. In one direction was the far Orient, Jerusalem, the invisible ruins of Solomon's Temple, Palestine weeping for her sons and the withering palms of Zion.

Sometimes the fire shining in the Rabbi's eyes was quenched by a tear, cooling his cheeks which burned with the heat of interior fires. Sometimes they were cooled also by the cold winds and misty fogs, but Isaak Todros looked every morning through the mists and fogs, toward the Orient. Then he bent and took from the bench the food prepared for him by pious hands. He did not eat it alone. He broke the bread and cake into crumbs and threw it in handfuls to the birds which came to his window in great flocks. Some of them seized the food and carried it to their nests, chirping joyfully. Others after having eaten enough flew in through the window and perched on the bent shoulders of their friend. Then the Rabbi's dark face grew a little less dark, and sometimes—though very seldom—a smile played about his close shut lips. He was very well known, not only to the birds living in the town, but also to those who filled the birch grove.

Isaak Todros often went to the grove, and sometimes penetrated the neighbouring pine forest. What did he do there? He fed the birds, who, on seeing him, immediately flew to him, and accompanied him in his walk. Sometimes he prayed in a loud voice, raising his trembling hands, and awakening by the sounds of his passionate cries the choir of wood echoes. He also gathered different herbs and plants, which he brought in great bunches to his hut. These plants possessed curative properties, whose knowledge was a heritage in the Todros family. All the members of this family belonged to that class of primitive physicians with which the Middle Ages was filled, and who learned their art of healing not from academies, but from wild nature, studied more with fantastical inquiring, than with learned thought. One of Isaak Todros' ancestors was, however, a very learned physician in Spain at the time when there was a short interval in prosperity in the bad fortunes of the Hebrew nation, and they were permitted to draw with the other nations all possible good from every source. However, the interval was but a short one, and after it the world-famous and really scholarly Hebrew physicians disappeared from the world; but one, by the name of Todros Halevi, transmitted his knowledge to his sons, and so it passed from generation to generation.

Isaak Todros searched for diligently, and gathered carefully, these precious plants of the ancient knowledge and traditions of his family. He carried them with him, and laid them on the dirty floor of his cabin in order to dry them.

On this account the air of his cabin was saturated during the summer and fall with the pungent, choking scent of drying herbs and wild flowers.

His cell was a vivid reminder of the bare cells of anchorites and hermits. Its only furniture consisted of a hard bed, a white table, standing near one of the windows, a couple of chairs, and a few planks fastened to the wall piled up with books. Among these books were twelve enormous volumes bound in parchment. They constituted the Talmud. There were also the "Ozarha-Kabod," a work written by one of Isaak's ancestors—that Todros Halevi who was the first Talmudist to believe in the Kabala; "Toldot-Adam," an epic poem, telling the history of the first man and his exile; "Sefer-Jezira," (Book of Creation), telling by pictures of the origin of the world; "Ka-arat Kezef," in which Ezobi warns the Israelites against the pernicious influence of secular science; "Schiur-Koma," a plastic description of God, instructing the reader regarding his physical appearance—the gigantic size of the head, feet, hands, and especially God's beard, which, according to the book, is ten thousand five hundred parasangs long. But the place of honour was occupied by a book showing much thumbing. It was the Book of Light—Zohar—the greatest, and, at the same time, the deepest dissertation on Hohma-Nistar (Kabala), which was published in the thirteenth century by Moses Leon, in the name of Symeon-ben-Jochai, who lived several centuries before.

Such was the library of Isaak Todros, in the reading of which he spent his nights, drawing from it all his learning and wisdom, consuming in its perusal all the forces of his body. From that library emanated an odour which intoxicated his mind with mystical emotions and the bitter, sharp venom of aversion to everything which was a stranger to, or bore ill-will to the world, shut up in those books, filled with supernatural lights and shadows. In reading them, he exhausted many hours a week—even holy days and nights. But through the holy nights there sat at his feet his pupil and favourite, Reb Moshe, the melamed, who snuffed the yellow candle, for a pious man reading Holy Books during holy nights was not permitted to snuff the candle, and he must have beside him some attentive person to perform this office.

During the holy nights the Rabbi read Schiur-Koma and Zohar, and the little man, sitting beside him, raised himself from time to time in his low chair, reviving the flame of the dying candle, and with his round eyes looking into the face of his master, waiting for the moment when his hand would arrange a word from the names of God, Notarikon and Gomatria, which would perform great miracles, and disclose to the people all the secrets of the heavens and of the earth.

Returning home after sunset one day with a big bunch of herbs, Isaak Todros found his faithful worshipper seated in a corner of the dark hall, plunged in deep thought.

"Moshe," said the Rabbi, passing swiftly and quietly through the hall.

"What is your order, Nassi?" humbly asked Moshe.

"Go at once to old Saul, and tell him that Rabbi Isaak Todros will visit his house to-morrow."

The cramped, gray figure in the dark corner jumped as though moved by a spring, and rushed across the square to the house of Saul. Passing quickly the piazza and long hall, the melamed opened the door, and, thrusting his head into the room, he exclaimed triumphantly:

"Reb Saul, a great honour and happiness is coming to you! Rabbi Isaak Todros, the perfect pious, and the first scholar in the world, will visit your house to-morrow!"

From the depths of the large parlour the voice of the old merchant, dried by age, but still strong, answered:

"I, Saul Ezofowich, my children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren will await Rabbi Isaak's visit with great joy and great desire in our hearts. May he live a hundred years!"

"May he live a hundred years!" repeated the dark figure, and disappeared.

The door was closed. Old Saul was sitting on the sofa, reading from Zohar, but he could not understand its deep explanations in spite of the utmost mental strain, for his mind was accustomed to secular business affairs. Suddenly his wrinkled forehead became gloomy and uneasiness shone in his eyes. He turned to his elder son, Raphael, who sat at a table near by, balancing his books, and asked:

"Why is he coming here?"

Raphael shrugged his shoulders, as a sign that he did not know.

"Has he any reason for picking a quarrel?" asked the old man again.

Raphael, raising his face from his books, said:

"He has."

Saul shivered.

"Nu!" he exclaimed, "And what reason can he have? Has someone of the family sinned?"

Raphael answered shortly:

"Meir."

The faces of both father and son grew sad and disquieted. Isaak Todros visited the members of the sect very seldom—only when there was a question of some important religious matter or transgression of rules. And even such rare calls were only paid to the most prominent and influential members of the community. Poor people surrounded the Rabbi's cabin, ready to rush in at a sign from him in inexpressible joy or fear.

Rabbi Isaak Todros was an ascetic and he despised mammon, but he did not reject all possible signs of respect the people desired to show him, and they who were familiar with his thoughts and sentiments knew that he was very fond of these signs, and would even demand them imperiously in case anyone thought to dispense with or diminish them. For that reason all the poor population, and everyone who wished to win his special favour, called him "Prince," addressing him as "Nassi." Therefore his passage through the town on all occasions was an important and curious event for the population, and was performed with quiet, dignified ceremony. A couple of hours before noon Saul Ezofowich, standing before the window of his parlour, looked with a certain amount of trouble at the retinue passing slowly across the square. All the members of his family, robed in holiday dresses, with a solemn expression on their faces, looked also, holding themselves in readiness to welcome this high dignitary of the community at the threshold of their residence. Through the square, from the school, a throng of people dressed in black advanced toward the house of the Ezofowich. In the middle, bent as always, in shabby clothes, with his rough shirt unbuttoned showing the yellow neck, marched Isaak Todros, with his usual swift, noiseless quiet pace.

On either side was an official of the Kahal—the small, lithe Reb Jankiel, with his white, freckled face and fiery red beard, and David Calman, one of the dignitaries of the town. Morejne, a rich cattle merchant, tall, stiff, and dignified, with hands in the pockets of his satin halat and a sweet smile of satisfaction on his fat lips, walked near. Behind these three people, and on both sides, were several others more or less humble and smiling. The whole crowd was preceded by Reb Moshe, in such a way that he faced the Rabbi and had his back in the direction in which they walked. Consequently he could not be said to walk, but draw back, in the meantime jumping and clapping his hands, bending low to the ground, stumbling, and jumping again, raising his face to the sky and shouting for joy. Finally, a certain distance behind, a throng of children followed them and looked with great curiosity at the retinue, and on seeing the melamed's jumping and dancing, they began to imitate him, jumping and gesticulating also and filling the air with wild noise.

After a while the door of the Ezofowich house was violently opened and through it rushed the melamed—he was red, out of breath, bathed in perspiration and beaming with great joy. He rejoiced heartily, loudly, passionately. What for? Poor melamed!

"Reb Saul!" he said with a hoarse voice, "meet the great happiness the great honour coming to you."

From Saul's face it would be seen that a secret fear was fighting with the great joy within him. But his family evidently rejoiced exceedingly, for their faces beamed with pride and satisfaction except Ber, who was always silent and apathetic if the question was not one of business and money. Old Saul stood near the threshold of the parlour. On the piazza Rob Jankiel and Morejne Calman seized the Rabbi under either arm, lifted his thin body above the ground, and having carried him through the hall and over the threshold they placed him opposite Saul. Then they bowed profoundly, left the house, sat on the piazza waiting for the moment to reconduct the Rabbi.

In the meanwhile Saul bent before the guest his grave and reverent head. Everyone present followed his example.

"He who greets a sage greets the Eternal," said he.

"He who greets a sage . . ." the choir of male and female voices began to repeat after Saul, but at that moment Isaak Todros raised his index finger, looked around with his fiery eyes, and said:

"Sh-a-a-a!"

In the room there was the silence of the tomb.

The finger of the guest made a large circle, taking in the row of people standing near the wall.

"Weg!" (get out) shouted he.

Within the room the rustling of dresses and the sound of swift steps were heard; faces grew frightened and sorrowful, and crowding together the inmates squeezed through the door leading to the interior of the house, and disappeared.

In the larger room only two men remained—the silver-haired, broad-shouldered patriarch, and the thin, fiery-looking sage.

When the Rabbi imperatively drove out his host's family—the gray-headed sons, dignified matrons, and beautiful girls, Saul's gray eyebrows quivered and bristled for a moment. Evidently his pride rose within him.

"Rabbi," said he, in a muffled voice, and with a bow that was not as low as the first one, "deign to take under my roof the place you think the most comfortable."

He did not call his guest "prince"; he did not give him the name of Nassi.

Rabbi Isaak looked t him gloomily, crossed the room, and sat on the sofa. At that moment he was not bent; on the contrary, he sat bolt upright, looking sharply into the face of the old man who sat opposite to him.

"I have driven them out," said he, pointing to the door through which the patriarch's family had made their exit. "Why did you gather them? I wished to talk with you alone."

Saul was silent.

"I bring you news," again said the Rabbi quickly and gloomily. "Your grandson Meir has not a clean soul. He is a kofrim (infidel)."

Saul still sat silent, only his frowning brows quivered nervously above his faded eyes.

"He is a kofrim!" the Rabbi repeated loudly. "He speaks ugly words of our religion, and he does not respect the sages. He violates the Sabbath, and is friendly with the heretics."

"Rabbi!" began Saul.

"You must listen when I speak," interrupted the Rabbi.

The old man tightened his lips so that they disappeared under his gray moustache.

"I came to tell you," continued Todros, "that it's your fault that your grandson is bad. Why did you not permit the melamed to whip him when he was in the heder, and did not want to study German, and laughed at the melamed, and instigated the others to laugh at him? Why did you send him to Edomita, living there among the gardens to make him study the reading of the Gojs and also their writing and the other abominations of the Edomites? Why did you not punish him when he violated the Sabbath, and contradicted the melamed at your table? Why did you spoil his soul with your sinful love? Why don't you force him to study holy science? And why do you look on all his abominations as though you were a blind man?"

This vehement speech tired the Rabbi, and panting, he rested.

Then old Saul began to talk:

"Rabbi, your soul must not be angry with me. I could not act otherwise. This child is the son of my son—the youngest among my children, and who disappeared very quickly from my eyes. When his parents died I took this child to my home, and I wished that he might never remember that he was an orphan. I was then already a widower, and I carried him in my own arms. His old great-grandmother took care of him also, and she would give her soul for the happiness of his soul. In her crown he is the first jewel, and now her old mouth opens only for him. These are, Rabbi, the reasons why I have been more indulgent with him than with my other children; these are the reasons why my soul was ill when the melamed scolded and whipped him in the heder, as the other children. I sinned then. I rushed into the heder like a madman, spoke ugly words to the melamed, and took the boy away with me. Rabbi, I sinned, because the melamed is a wise and saintly man; but this sin will disappear from your mind, Rabbi, if you will but think that I could not bear to look at the bruises on the body of the son of my son. When such bruises appeared on the bodies of the children of my son Raphael, and my son Abraham, and my son Ephraim, I was silent, for their fathers were living—thanks be to God!—and could look after their children. But when I saw the black-and-blue marks on the back and shoulders of the orphan, Rabbi, then I cried—then I shouted, and I sinned."

"That is not your only sin," said the Rabbi, who listened to Saul's speech with the motionless severity of a judge, "and why did you send him to Edomit?"

"Rabbi," answered Saul, "and how could he go through the world if he did not understand the tongue of the people of this country, and could not write his name to a contract or a note? Rabbi, my sons and grandsons conduct large business transactions, and he will do the same when he is married. His father's wealth belongs to him. He will be rich and will have to talk with great lords, and how could he so talk if I had not sent him to study with an Edomit?"

"May Edom perish with his abominable learning, and may the Lord not forgive him!" grumbled the Rabbi, and after a while he added: "and why did you not make of him a scholar instead of a merchant?"

"Rabbi," answered Saul, "the Ezofowich family is a family of merchants. We are merchants from father to son—that is our custom."

Saying this, he raised his bent head. The mention of his family caused him to grow proud and bold. But nothing could be compared with the disdain with which, repeating after Saul, the Rabbi hissed:

"The Ezofowich family! It was always a grain of pepper in Israel's palate!"

Saul raised his head higher.

"Rabbi!" he exclaimed, "in that family there were diamonds which caused the Edomites themselves, in looking on them, to respect the whole of Israel."

The ancient hatred between the Ezofowichs and Todros began to bubble up.

"In your family," spoke the Rabbi, "there is one ugly soul which passes from one Ezofowich to another, and cannot be cleansed. For it is written that all souls which flow from the Seraphim flow like drops of water from an inclined bottle, carrying Ibur-Gilgul—travel through bodies, from one to another, until they are cleansed from all sin, when they return to the Seraphim. If a man is pious and saintly his soul returns to the Seraphim, and when the soul returns there another soul goes into the world and enters a body. Misery and sadness, sorrow and sin will dwell upon the earth as long as all souls taken from the Seraphim have not fulfilled the Ibur-Gilgul and pass through the bodies. And how will they be able to pass all the bodies if on the earth there are many which are abominable, unclean, and do not respect the holy teachings? These unwholesome ones keep the souls in their bodies, and there above the other souls are waiting. And they must wait, because there are not as many bodies in the world as there are souls among the Seraphim. And the Messiah himself is waiting, because he will not come until the last soul enters the body and Ibur-Gilgul begins. These abominable ones, occupying one body after another, do not permit the waiting souls to enter in, and postponing to a remote period the Jobelha-Gabel, the day of the Messiah,—the great festival of joy! In your family there is such an abominable soul. It entered first into the body of Michael the Senior, then it entered Hersh's body, and now it sits in the body of your grandson Meir! I recognised the proud and rebellious soul in his eyes and face, therefore my heart turned from him!"

While Todros explained to the old man sitting opposite him this doctrine of the migration of souls, and its consequences, in the old man a striking change took placer Before he had grown bolder, and even raised his head with a certain pride and dignity. Now he bent it low, and sorrow and fear appeared among the wrinkles of his face.

"Rabbi!" said he humbly, "be blessed for having disclosed to my eyes your holy learning. Your words are true and your eyes can recognise the souls which dwell in bodies. Rabbi, I will tell you something. When my son Raphael brought little Meir, I took the child and began to kiss him, for it seemed to me that he looked like my son Benjamin, his father; but the old great-grandmother took him from me, put him opposite her on the floor and began to look at him very attentively, and then she exclaimed: 'He does not look like Benjamin, but like my Hersh!' The tears flowed from her old eyes and her lips repeated: 'Hersh, Hersh! my Hersh!' and she pressed the child to her boom and said: 'He is my dearest Kleineskind! He is the eyes of my head and the diamond in my crown, made for me by my grandsons and great-grandson, for he looks like my Hersh.' And she is fond of him. Now she knows only him and calls him to her because he looks like her husband, Hersh."

"Michael's soul entered Hersh's body, and from his body it passed into your grandsons Meir's," repeated the Rabbi, and added: "It's a proud rebellious soul! There is no peace and humility in it."

It seemed that Todros was softened by Saul's submissiveness, and the respect shown in his words.

"Why don't you marry him? He has already long hair on his face," said the Rabbi.

"Rabbi, I wished to marry him to the daughter of the pious Jankiel, but the child lay at my feet and begged me not to force him."

"Why then did you not put your feet on his back, and make him obey you?"

Saul dropped his eyes and was silent. He felt that he was guilty. Love for the orphan made him sin always.

Todros spoke further:

"Marry him as soon as you can, because it is written that when on a young man's face the hair is growing, and he has not a wife, then he will fall into uncleanliness. Your grandson's soul has already fallen into uncleanliness. Yesterday I saw him with a girl—"

Saul raised his eyes.

"I saw him," continued the Rabbi, "talking with Karaim's girl."

"Karaim's girl?" repeated Saul, in a voice full of surprise and fright.

"He was standing on the edge of the pond and took from her hand some flowers, and I read in their faces that the unclean fire was embracing them."

"With Karaim's girl," repeated Saul once more.

"With a heretic!" said the Rabbi.

"With a beggar!" said Saul energetically, raising his head.

"Rabbi," continued he, "now I will act differently with him! I don't wish to have shame eat up my eyes in my old age, because my grandson has an unclean friendship with a beggar. I shall marry him!"

"You must punish him," said the Rabbi, "I came here to tell you to put your foot on his neck and bend his pride. Don't spare him, for your indulgence will be a sin which the Lord will not forgive you. And if you will not punish him, I will lay my hand on his head and there will be great shame for you, and for him such misfortune that he will grovel in the dirt, like a miserable worm!"

Under the influence of these words, pronounced in a threatening voice, Saul trembled. Different emotions fought continually within the old man; a secret hatred for Todros and a great respect for his learning, pride and fear, fierce anger toward his grandson and tender love for him. The Rabbi's threat touched that last chord.

"Rabbi," he said, "forgive him. He is still a mere child. When he is married and starts in business he will be different. When he was born his father wrote to me: 'Father, what name do you wish your grandson to be given?' and I answered, 'Give him the name of Meir, which means light, that it may be a light before me and all Israel!'"

Here emotion choked his voice and he was silent. Two tears rolled slowly down his cheeks.

The Rabbi rose from the sofa, lifted his index finger and said:

"You must remember my commands. I order you to set your foot on his neck, and you must listen to my orders, because it is written that 'the sages are the world's foundation.'"

Having said this, he advanced toward the door, at which Reb Jankiel and Morejne Calman seized him again, and carried him through the hall and across the threshold and set him on the ground.

And again the black throng of people advanced through the square toward the school-yard; again the melamed, retreating before the Rabbi, jumped, clapped his hands, danced and shouted; and again the crowd of children, following the retinue at a distance, imitated their teacher, jumping, howling, Clapping their hands. And in Ezofowich's parlour old Saul sat with his face covered with his hands, while at the opposite door Freida appeared. The sun rays, falling through the window, kindled into rainbow colours the diamonds with which she was covered. She looked around the room with her half-closed eyes, and pronounced, in her customary soundless whisper: