f
Author './h* Isaacs' '©ul
CHAPTER XIII.
1' Keyork Arabian
inclined to the
psychic rather than
to the physical
school in his view
of Unorna’s witch
craft, and ' in his
study of hypnotism
in general, his
opinion resulted
naturally from his
great knowledge
of mankind and of
the u na cknowl
edged. often un
suspected, convictions which in real
ity direct mankind’s activity. It was
this experience, too, and the certain
ty to which it had led him, that put
him beyond the reach of Unorna’s
power so long as he chose not to yield
himself to her will. The important
point was that she should not lose
anythin” of the gifts she possessed,
and Keyork was wise enough to
see that the exercise of them depend
ed in a great measure upon her own
conviction regarding their exceptional
nature.
Unorna herself believed in every
thing which strengthened and de
veloped that conviction, and especial
ly in the influences of timo and place.
And to this end everything was in her
favor. She needed not to close her
eyes to fancy that fill days had not
really passed between then and now,
as she left the house in the afternoon
with the Wanderer by her side.
He had eorno back, and had found
her once more herself, calm, collected,
conscious of her own powers. No
suspicion of the real cause of the dis
turbance h^hud witnessed crossed his
mind; still less could he guess what
thing she meditated as she directed
theii* walk toward that lonely place
by the river which had been the scene
of her first great effort. She talked
lightly as they went, and he, in that
strange humor of peaceful, well-satis
fied indifference which possessed him,
answered her in the same strain.
D'l'hey came out upon the open place
by the river which she remembered
so well. Unorna glanced about her,
and her face fell. The place was the
same, but the solitude was disturbed.
It was not Sunday, as it had been on
that uay a month ago. All about the
huge blocks of stone groups of work
men were busy with great chisels and
heavy hammers, hewing and chipping
and fashioning the material that it
might be ready for use in the early
spring.
They turned in a new direction,
Unorna guiding her companion by a
gesture. They were near to the Jew
ish quarter, and presently were tread
ing their way through narrow and
filthy streets thronged with eager
Hebrew faces, and filled with the hum
of low-pitched voices chattering to
gether, not in the language of the
country, but in a base dialect of Ger
man.
Unorna gathered her furs more
closely about her, in evident disgust
at her surroundings, but still she kept
on her way, her companion wonder
ing what made her choose to
walk that way. Then he saw that
she was going toward the ceme
tery. They reached the door, were
admitted, and found themselves alone
in the vast wilderness. The stillness
in the place is intense. Not a
murmur of distant life from
the surrounding city disturbs
the silence. As she reached the high
est point Unorna stood still, turned
quickly toward the Wanderer, and
held out both her hands toward him.
“I have chos n this place because
it is quiet,” she said, with a soft
smile.
Hardly knowing why he did so, he
laid his hands in hers and looked at
her, and saw for the hundredth time
that she was very beautiful. There
was a faint color in her cheeks, and
her full lips were just parted as
though a loving word had escaped
them which she would not willingly
recall. Against the background of
broken neutral tints her figure stoed
out, an incarnation of youth au4
vitality. If she had often looked
weary and pale of late, her strength
and freshness had returned to her jvviv
in all their abundance. The Wander
er knew that he was watching hei,
and knew that he was thinking of her
beauty and realizing the whole exteut
of it more fully than ever before, but
beyond this point his thoughts could
not go.
Looking into her sunlike eyes, he
saw there twin images of himself that
drew him softly and surely into them
selves until he was absorbed by them,
and felt that he was no longer a reali
ty, but a reflection. Then a deep un
consciousness stole over all his senses
and he slept, or passed into that state
which seems to lie between sleep and
trance.
Unorna needed not to question him
this time, for she saw that he was
completely under her influence. Yet
she hesitated at the supreme moment,
and then, though to all real intents
she was quite alone, a burning flush
of shame rose to her face, and her
heart sank within her. She felt that
she could not do it
j
CM^DJtts* 'Argwian m'GER'ar.
.She dropped his hands. They fell
to his Side as though they had been
of lead. Then she turned from him
and pressed her aching forehead
against a tall, weatherworn slime
that rose higher than her own height
from the midst of the hillock.
Her woman’s nature rebebedagainst
the trick. It was the truest thing in
her, and perhas the best, which pro
tested so violently against the thing
she meant to do; it was the simple
longing to be loved for her own sake,
and of tbe man’s own free will, to be
loved by him wtlh tbe love she had
despised in Israel Kafka. But would
this be love at all, this artificial cre
ation of her suggestion reacting upon
her mind? Would it last? Would it
be true, faithful, tender? Above all,
would it be real, even for a moment?
She asked herself a thousand ques
tions in a second of time.
Then the ready excuse flashed upon
qer—the pretext which the heart will
always find when it must haveits way.
Was it not possible, after all, that he
was beginning to love her even now?
Might not that outburst of friendship
which had surprised her and wounded
her so deeply be the herald of a
stronger passion? She looked up
quickly and met his vacant stare.
“L)o you love me?” she asked, al
most before she knew what she was
going to say.
“No.” The answer came in the
far-off voice that told of his uncon
sciousness; a mere toneless monosylla
ble breathed upon the murky air.
But it stabbed her like the thrust of a
jagged knife. A long silence followed,
and Unorna leaned against the great
slab of carved sandstone.
“You must love me.” she said;
“you must love me, because I love
you so. Will you not love me, dear?
I have waited to long for you.”
The Wanderer did not move. His
face was as calm as sculptured stone.
“I)o you despise me for loving
you?” she asked again, with a sudden
Hush.
“No. I do not despise you. some
thing in her tone had pierced through
his stupor, and had found an answer.
She started at the sound of his voice.
It was as though he had been awake
and had known the weight of what she
had been saying, and her anger rose
at the cold reply.
“No—you do not despise me, and
you never shall!” she exclaimed, pas
sionately. “You shall love me, as I
lose you—I will it with all my will!
We are created to be all, one to the
other, and you shall not break through
the destiny of love. Love me, as I
love you—love me with all you heart,
love me with all your mind, love me
with all your soul, love me as man
never loved woman since the world
began! I will it, I command it—it
shall be as I say—you dare not dis
obey me—you cannot if you would.
“Enter into my soul and read what
love is, in his own great writing.
Read how he steals suddenlly into the
sacred place and make it his, and
tears down the old gods and sets up
his dear image in their stead—lead
how he sighs, and speaks, and weeps,
and loves—and forgives not, but will
be revenged at the last! See how 1
love you—see how sweet it is—how
very lovely a thing it is to love as
woman can. There—have you felt it
now? Have you seen into the depths
of my soul and into the hiding places
of my heart? Let it be so in your own,
then, and let it be so forever. You
understand now. You know what it
all is—how wild, how passionate, how
gentle and how great! Take to your
self this love of mine—is it not all
yours? Take it, and plant it with
strong roots and seeds of undying life
in your own sleeping breast, and let it
grow and grow till it is even greater
than it was in me. till it takes us both
into itself, together, fast bound in its
immortal bonds, to be two in one, in
life and beyond life, for ever and ever
and ever to the end of ends.!”
Sifie ceased, and she saw that his
face was no ionger expressionless and
cold.
At last sne spoite,
“Then, love, since you are mine,
and I am yours, wake from the dream
to life itself—wake, not knowing that
you have slept, knowing only that
you iove me now and always—wake,
love, wake!’’
“What is it?'1 he asked in his kind
.lid passionate voice. “What were you
going to ask me, Unorna?”
It was gone. The terribly earnest
appeal had been in vain. Not a trace
of that short vision of love remained
impressed upon his brain.
With a smothered cry of agony
Unorna leaned against the great slab
of stone behind her and covered her
eyes. The darkness of night de
scended upon her, and with it the fire
of a burning shame.
Then a loud and cruel laugh rang
through the chilly air, such a laugh
as the devils in hell bestow upon the
shame of a proud soul that knows its
own infinite bitterness. Unorna
started and uncovered her eyes; her
suffering changed in a single instant
to ungovernable and destroying
anger. She made a step forward, and
then stopped short, breathing hard.
The Wanderer, too, had turned, more
quiokly than she. Between two tall
gravestones, not a dozen paces away,
stood a man with haggard face and
eyes on fire, his keen, worn features
contorted by a smile, in which un
speakable satisfaction struggled for
expression with a profound despair.
The man was Israel Kafka.
CHAPTER XIV.
H
HE Wand er e r
1 o o k ed from
Unorna to Kafka
with profound
surprse.
‘•Who is this
man?” he asked
“And what does
he want of you?”
Unorna made
as though she
would pass him.
But he laid his
hand upon her
ai in wiLii u. tjesiui e inui Deirayeu nis
anxiety for her safety. At his touch
her face changed fora moment, and a
faint blush her dyed cheek.
“You may well ask who I am,” said
the Moravian, speaking in a voice
half-choked with passion and anger.
“She will tell you she does not know
me—she will deny my existence to
my face. But she knows me very
well. I am Israel Kafka.”
The Wanderer looked at him more
curiously. He remembered what he
had heal'd but a few hours earlier
from Keyork concerning the young
fellow’s madness. The situation now
partially explained itself.
“I understand,” he said, looking at
Unorna. “He seems to be dangerous.
What shall I do with him?”
“Leave him to me,” she answered
imperiously. “He will obey me.”
“ies,” he said, in a low tone, which
did not express submission. “Leave
mo to her! Leave me to the Witch
and to her mercy. It will be the end
this time. She is drunk with her
love of you. and mad with her hatred
of me.”
Unorna grew suddenly pale, and
would have again sprung forward.
But the W’anderer stopped her and
held her arm. At the same time he
looked into Kafka’s eyes, and raised
one hand, as thoueh in warninsr.
“Be silent!” he exclaimed.
“And if 1 speak, what then?” asked
the Moravian, with his evil s'mile.
“I will silence you,” answered, the
Wanderer, coldly. “Your madness
excuses you, perhaps, but it does not
justify me in allowing you to insult a
woman.”
Kafka's anger took a new direction.
Even madmen are often calmed by
the quiet opposition of a strong and
self-possessed man. And Kafka was
not mad. He was no coward, either,
but the subtlety of his race was in
him.
“I insult no one,” he said, almost
deferentially. “Least of all her whom
I have worshiped long and lost at
last. You accuse me unjustly of that,
and, though my speech may have been
somewhat rude, yet may I be forgiven
for the sake of what I have suffered.
For I have suffered much.”
Seeing that he was taking a more
courteous tone, the Wanderer folded
his arms and left Unorna free to move,
awaiting her commands, or the
further development of events.
“And are you going to charm our
ears with the story of your suffer
ings?” Unorna asked, in a tone so
cruel that the Wanderer expected a
quick outburst of anger from Kafka
in reply. But he was disappointed in
this.
“Xo,” began Kafka, “I wag not
thus favored in my nativity. The
star of love was not in the ascendant,
the lord of magic charms was not
trembling' upon my horizon, the sun
of earthly happiness was not en
throned in my mul-heaven. How
could it be? She had it all, this
Unorna here, and nature, generous in
one mad moment. lavished upon her
all there was to give. For she has
all, and we have nothing, as 1 have
learned and you will learn before vou
die.”
He looked at the Wanderer as he
spoke. His hollow eyes seemed calm
enough, and in his dejected attitude
and subdued tone there was nothing
that gave warning of a coming storm.
The Wanderer listened. :Af ,jjj>veresl
ed and yet half-annoyed per
sistence. Unorna herself 'V silent
still.
Israel Kafka spoke dreamily, rest
ing against the stone beside him,
seemingly little conscious of the words
that fell in oriental imagery from- his
lips.
“And Jove was her hrst captive,
said the Moravian, “and her first
slave. Yes, I will tell you the story
ofUnorna’s life. She is angry with
me now. Well, let it be. It is my
fault—or hers. What matter? She
cannot quite forget me out of mind—
and I? Has Lucifer forgotten God?”
He sighed, and a momentary light
flashed in his eyes. Something in the
blasphemous strength of the words
attracted the Wanderer’s attention.
Utterly indifferent himself, he saw
that there was something more than
madness in the man before him. He
found himself wondering what encour
agement Unorna had given the seed
of passion that it should have grown
to such strength, and he traced the
madness back to the love, instead of
referring the love to the madness.
But he said nothing.
“So she was born.” continned Kaf
ka, dreaming on. “And nothing re
sisted her. Neither man nor woman
nor child had any strength to oppose
against her magic. The wolf hounds
licked her feet, the wolves themselves
crouched fawning in her path. For
she is without fear—as she is without
mercy. Is that strange? What fear
can there be for her who has the magic
charm, who holds sleep in the one
hand and death in the other, and be
tween whose brows is set the knowl
edge of what shall be hereafter? Can
any one harm her? Has any one the
strength to harm her? Is there any
thing on earth which she covets and
which shall not he hers?”
Though his voice was almost as
soft as before, the evil smile flickered
again about his drawn lips as he
looked into Unorna’s face. Ho won
dered why she did not face h'in and
crush him, and force him to sleep
with her eyes as he knew she could
do. But he himself was past fear.
He had suffered too much, and cared
not what chanced to him now. But
she should know that he knew all. if
he told her so with his latest breath.
Despair had given him a strange con
trol of his anger and of his words,
and jealously had taught him the art
of wounding swiftly, surely and with
a light touch. This one chance of
wounding was given to him. and he
would use it to the utmost, with all
subtlety, with all cruelty, with all
determination to torture.
"Whatsoever she Covets is hers to
take. No one escapes the spell in the
end, no one- resists the charm. And
yet it is written in the book of her
fate that she shall one day taste of
the of fruit of ashes, and drink of the
bitter water. It is written that who
soever slays with the swonl shall die
by the sword also. She has killed with
love, and by love she shall perish. I
loved her once. I know what I am
saying.”
Again he paused, lingering though^,
fully upon the words. The WanderGp
glanced at Unorna, as though asking
her whether she should not put a sud
den end to the strange monologue.
She was pale and her eyes were
bright; hut she shook her head.
"Let him say what he will say,”
she answered, taking the question as
though it had been spoken. "Let
him say all he will. Perhaps it is the
last time.”
“I will tell my story, not that any
one may judge between you and me.
There is neither judge nor justice for
those who love in vain. So I loved
you. That is the whole story. Do
you understand me, sir? I loved this
woman, but she would not love me.
That is all. And what of it. and
what then? Look at her and look at
me—the beginning and the end.”
In a manner familiar to Orientals,
the unhappy man laid out •' ■ upon
liis own breast, and wit-u the other
hi Jill he pointed fair
yotmg face. JaSgttjj*!’?
fShe laughed in a Vi But
Israel Kafka’s eyes gremfr-!-.- and
the somber tire beamed he
spoke again. The weary, tortureo
smile left his wan lips and his pale
face grew stern.
‘ Laugh, laugh, Unorna?” he cried.
“You do not laugh alone. And yet
—I love you still. And he who dies
for you, Unorna—of him you ask
nothing, save that he will crawl away
and die alone and not disturb your
delicate life with such an unseemly
Ii01it.”
“You talk of death,” exclaimed
Unorna scornfully. “You talk of
dying for me, because you are ill to
day. To-morrow Keyork Arabian will
have cured you, and then, for aught I
know, you will talk of killing me in
stead. This is child’s talk—boy’s
talk. If we are to listen to you, you
must be more eloquent. You must
give us such a tale of woe as shall
draw tears from our eyes and sobs
from our breasts—then we wiy. ap
plaud you and let you go. That shall
be your reward.”
The Wanderer glanced at her in
surprise. There was a bitterness in
her tone of which he had not believed
her soft voice capable.
“Are you mad, indeed?” asked the
Wanderer, suddenly planting himself
in front of Kafka. “They told me so_
I can almost believe it.”
“No; I am not mad yet,” answered
the younger man, facing him fearless
ly. “You need not come between me
and her. She can protect herself.
You would know that if you knew
what I saw her do with you when I
came here.”
“What did she do?” The Wander
er turned quickly as he stood and
looked at Unorna.
“l)o not listen to his ravings,” she
said. The woids seemed weak and
poorly chosen, and there was a
stran 's look in her face,as though she
rfirv, .e tiler afraid or desperate or
T.'i&tic loves you,” said Israel Kafka
utely “And you do not know
it S»<> hits power over you as she
has v?e:‘ rue, but the power to make
you love her she has not. She will
destroy you, anti your state will be no
better than mine to-day. We shall
have moved on a step, for I shall be
dead and you will be the madman, and
she will have found another to love
and to torture. The world is full of
them. Her altar will never lack sac
rifices.”
i ne v» anaerer s iace was grave.
•‘You may be mad or not,” he said.
“I cannot tell. But you say mon
strous things, and you shall not re
peat them.”
Unorna laughed.
“Would you be a martyr?” she
asked.
“Not for your faith, but for the
faith I once had in you. and for the
love that no martyrdom could kill.
Ay—to prove that I have I would die
a hundred deaths, and to gain yours
I would die the death eternal.”
“Your wrong, your right, your
truth, your falsehood, you yourself,
are swallowed up in the love 1 bear
you! I love you always, and I will
say it, and say it again—ah. your
eyes, I love them, too! Take me into
them, Unorna—whether in hate or
love—but in love—yes—love—Unorna
—golden Unorna!”
With the cry on his lips—the name
he had given her in other days—he
made one mad step forward, throwing
out his arms as though to clasp her to
him. But it was too late. Even
while he had been speaking, her my»
terlous influence had overpowered
him. as ho had known that it would,
when she so pleased.
fiho caught his two hands in the ail
and pressed him back and held hin.
against the tali slab. The whole
pitilessness of her nature gleamed
like a cold light in her white face.
“There wa3 a martyr of your race
once,” she said, in cruel tones. “His
name was Simon Abeles. You talk ol
martyrdom! You shall know what il
means—though it bo too good foi
you, who spy upon the woman whom
you say you love.”
The hectic ilush of passion sank
from Israel Kafka’s cheek. Rigid,
with outstretched arms and bent head,
he stood against the ancient grave
stone. Above him, as thougli raised
to heaven in silent supplicution, were
the sculptured hands that marked the
last resting place of a Kohn.
“You shall know now,” said Unorna.
“You shall suffer indeed.”
CHAPTER XV.
NORN A’S voice
sunk from the
tone of anger to a
lower pitch. She
spoke quietly, and
very distinctly,
as though to im
press every word
upon the ear ol
the man who was
in her power. As
the Wanderer
gazed and list
ened, Israel Kaf
ka was transformed. Ho no longer
stood with outstretched arms, his
back against a crumbling slab, his
iilmy eyes fixed ; on Unorna’s face.
He grew younger, his features were
those of a boy of scarcely 13 years,
pale, earnest and brightened by a
soft light, which followed him hither
and thither, and he was not alone.
He moved with others through the
old familiar streets of tho city.clothed
in a fashion of other times, speaking
in accents comprehensible but unlike
the speech of today, acting in a dim
and far-off life that bad once been.
The Wanderer looked, and, as in
dreams, he knew that what he saw
was unreal, he knew that the chang
ing walls and streets and houses and
public‘places were built up of grave
stones, which, in truth, were deeply
planted in the ground, immovable and
incapable of spontaneous motion; he
knew that tho crowds of men and
women were not human beings, hut
gnarled and twisted trees rooted in
the earth, and that the hum of voices
that reached his ear was but the sound
of dried branches bending in the
wind: he knew that Israel Kafka was
not the pa'e-faced boy who glided
from place to place, followed every
where by a soft radiance; ho knew
that Unorna was the source and origin
of the vision, and that the mingling
speeches of the actors, now shrill in
angry altercation, now hissing in low,
lierco whisper, were really formed up
on Unorna’s lips and made audible
through her tones, as the chorus of
indistinct speech proceeded from the
swaying trees.
In one corner of tho dusky place
thsre was a little light. A boy stood
there, beside a veiled woman, and the
light that seemed tooling about him
was not the- reflection of gold. He
was very young. His pale face had
in it all the lost beauty of the Jewish
race, the lips were clearly cut, even
pure in outline and firm, the forehead
broad with thought, the features no
ble, aquiline—not vulture like.
He stood there looking on at the
scene in the market place, not won
dering, for nothing of it was new to
him; not scorning, lor he felt no hate;
not wrathful, for lie dreamed of peace.
He would have had it otherwise_
that was all.
“Let us go.” he said, in a low
voice. “The air is full of gold and
heavy. I cannot breathe it.”
“Whither?” a-ked the woman.
“Thou knowest, ” he answered.
And suddenly the faint radiance that
was always about him grew brighter,
and spread out arms behind him, to
the right and left, in the figure of a
cross.
Ihey walked together, side by side,
quickly and ofteu glancing behind
them, as though to see whether they
were followed. And yet it seemed as
though it was not they who moved,
but the city about them which
changed. All at once they were stand
ing before the richly carved doorway
of the Teyn church, the very door
way out of which the Wanderer had
followed the lieeting shadow of
Beatrice’s ligure but a month ago.
And then they paused and looked
again to the right and left, and
searched the dark corners with pierc
ing glances.
“Thy life is in thine hand,” said
the woman, speaking close to the
boy’s ear. “It is yet time. Turn
with me and let us go back.”
“What is there to fear?” he asked.
“Death,” answered the woman, in
a trembling tone. “They will kill
thee, and it shall be upon my head.”
“And what is death?” he asked
again, and the smile was still uptn
his face, as he led the way up the
steps.
The woman bowed her head, and
drew her veil more closely about her,
and followed him. Then they were
within the church, darker, more
ghostly, less rich in those days than
now.
“Is it thus?” he asked, and the
heavenly smile grew more radiant as
he made the sign of the cross.
“Beit not upon me!” she exclaimed,
earnestly. “Though I would it might
be forever so with thee.”
“It is forever,” the boy answered.
Ho went forward and prostrated
himself before the high altar.
An old man in a monk's robe came
forward out of the shadow of the
choir, and stood behind the marble
rails, and looked down at the boy’s
prostrate figure, wonderingly. Then
ths low gatcwny wag opened nnd ho
descended the throe steps nnd bont
down to the young head.
• What wouldet thou?" ho asked.
‘■I am a.Jew. I would bo a Christ
ian. I would be baptized.”
•‘Fearest thou not thy people?”
••I fear not death."
“Come with me.” Trembling, the
woman followed them I oth. nnd all
wore lost in the gloom of the church.
Suddenly a clear voice broke the
silence:
“Ego bnptizo to in nomine I’atrls et
Filii. et Spiritua Sancti.”
i’nen the woman and the boy were
standing again without tho entrance
in the chilly air. and tho ancient
monk was upon the threshold under
tho carved arch; his thin hands,
white in the darkness, were lifted
high, and he blessed them and they
went their way.
In tho moving vision tho radiance
was brighter still, and illuminated
tho streets as they moved on. Then a
cloud descended over all, and certain
days and weeks passed, and again tho
boy was walking swiftly toward tho
church. But the woman was not with
him, and he believod lie was alone,
though the messengers of evil
were upon him. Two dark figures
moved in the shadow, silent, noiseless
in their walk, muffled in their longgar
menls. He went on, no longer deign
ing to look back, beyond fear as hejiad
ever been, and beyond oven the'ex
pectation of a danger. lie went into
tho church, and the two men made
gestures and spoke in low tones, and
hid themselves in the shade of tho
buttresses outside.
The vision grew darker, and a ter
riblo stillness wasovereverything for
thechurch was not opened to the sight
this time. There was a horror of
long waiting with tho certainty of
what was to come. 'The narrow street
was empty to the eye, and yet there
was the knowledge of evil presence
of two strong men waiting in the dark
to take their victim to tiie place of
expiation. And the horror grew'
in the silence and emptiness until it
was unbearable.
The door opened, and the hoy was
with the monk under tho black arch.
The old man embraced him, and
blessed him, and stood still for a
moment watching him as ho went
down. Then he also turned and
went back, and tho door was closed.
Swiftly the two men glided from
their hiding place and sped along the
uneven pavement. The hoy paused
and faced them, for he felt that he
was taken. They grasped him by the
arms on each side, Lazarus, his fa
ther, and Levi, surnamed the Short
handed, the strongest and the crud
est and the most relentless of the
younger rabbis. Their grip was
rough, and the older man held a
coarse woollen cloth in his hand, with
which to smother the hoy's cries if ho
should cry out for help. But he was
very calm and did not resist them.
“What would you?” he asked.
“And what doest thou in a Chris
tian church?” asked Lazarus in fierce
tones.
“What Christians do, since I ain
one of them,” answered tho youth,
unmoved.
Lazarus said nothing, but he struck
the boy on the mouth with his hard
hand so that the blood ran down.
“Not here!” exclaimed Levi, anx
iously looking about.
And they hurried him away
through dark and narrow lanes. JLo
opposed no resistance to Levi’s rough
strength, not only suffering himself
to bo dragged along, but doing his
best to keop pace with the man’s long
strides, nor did he murmur at the
blows and thrusts dealt him from time
to time by his father from the other
side. During some minutes they were
still traversing the Christian part of
tho city. A single loud cry for help
would have brought a rescue, a few
words to tho rescuers would have
roused a mob of fierce men, and
the Jews would have paid with
their lives for tho deeds they had not
yet committed. But Simon Abeles
uttered no cry and offered no resist
ance. lie had said that ho feared not
death, and he had spoken tho truth,
not knowing what manner of death
was to be his. Onward they sped,
and in the vision the way they trav
ersed seemed to sweep past them, so
that they remained always in sight
though always hurrying on. Tho
Christian quarter was passed; before
them hung the chain of one of those
gates which gave access to tho city of
the Jews. With a ]eer and an oath the
bearded sentry watched them pass—
the martyr and his torturers. One
word to him, even then, and the butt
of his heavy halberd would have
broken Levi’s arm and laid the boy’s
father in the dust. The word was net
spoken. On through the filthy ways,
on and on, through narrow courts and
torturous passages to a dark low door
way. Then, again, the vision 'showed
but an empty street, and there was
silence for a space, and a horror of
long waiting in the falling night.
Lights moved within the house, ajd
then one window after another was
bolted and barred from within. A
dull noise, bad to hear, resounded as
from beneath a vault, and then an
other and another—the sound of
cruel blows upon a human body.
Then a pause.
‘•Wilt thou renounce it?1' asked
the voice of Lazarus.
“Kyrie eleison! Christo eleison!"
came the answer brave and dear.
‘•Lay on, Levi, and let thy arm be
strong.”
••Dost thou repent? Dost thou re
nounce? Dost thou deny ?”
“I repent of my sins—I renounce
your ways—I believe in the Lord-”
The sacred name was not heard. A
smothering groan, as of one losipg
consciousness in extreme torture, vffcs
ail that came up from below.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
