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About The McCook tribune. (McCook, Neb.) 1886-1936 | View Entire Issue (May 26, 1893)
i l Author .r-vb» isaaca' *©r. CHAPTER XV—Continued. “Lay on, Levi, lay on!” “Nay,” answered the strong rabbi, “the boy will die. Let us leave him here for this night.” “As thou sayest.” Again there was silenoe. Soon the rays of light ceased to shine through the crevices of the outer shutters, and Bleep descended upon the quarter of the Jews. Still the scene in the vis ion changed i, t. “Lord, if it be thy will that I die, grant that I may bear all in thy name, grant that I, unworthy, may endure in this body the punishment duo me in spirit for my sins. And if it be thy will that I live, let my life be used also for thy glory ” The voice ceased and the cloud of passing time descended upon the vis ion and was lifted again and again. “I believe,” it said, always. “Do what you will, you have power over the body, but 1 have the faith over which you have no power. So the days and the nights passed, and though the prayer came up in feeble tones, it was born of a mighty spirit, and it rang in the ears of the tormentors as the voice of an angel which they had no power to silence, appealing from them to the tribunal of the throne of God most high. Day by day, also, the rabbis and the elders began to congregate to gether at evening before the house of Lazarus, and to talk with him and with each other, debating how they might break the endurance of his son and bring him again into the syna gogue as one of themselves. ■ “He is possessed of a devil,” they said. “He will die and repent not.” “He has not repented,” said Laz arus, from his place. “Neither many stripes, nor cold, nor hunger, nor thirst, have moved him to righteous ness. It is written that he shall be cut off from his people.” “We will not let him go,” said the dark man, and an evil smile flickered from one face to another as a firefly flutters from tree to tree in the night —as though the spirit of evil had touched each one in turn. ■•no win not let mm go, saicx eacn again. Lazarus also smiled, as though in assent, and bowed his head a little be fore he spoke. ••I am obedient to your judgment. It is yours to command, and mine to obey. If you say that he must die, let him die. He is my son. Take him. Did not our father Abraham lay Isaac upon the altar and offer him as a burnt sacrifice before the Lord?” “Let him die,” said the rabbis. “Then let him die, ” answered Laza rus. “I am yourservant. It is mine to obey.” “His blood be on our heads,” they said. And again the evil smile went round. , “It is then expedient that we de tei'mine of what manner his death shall be,” continued the father, in clining his body to signify his sub mission. “It is not lawful to shed his blood,” said the rabbis. “And we cannot stone him, lest we be brought to judgment of the Christians. Determine thou the manner of his death.” “My masters, if you will 'Sfe it, let him be bi-ought once more hjfore us. Let us all hear with our ears his de nial, and, if he repent at the last, it is well, let him live. But if he harden his heart against our entreaties, let him die. Levi hath brought certain pieces of wood hither to my house, and is even now at work. If the youth is still unboim in his belief, let him die even as the Unbeliever died— by the righteous judgment of the Ro mans.” “Let i.t be so. Let him be cruci fied!” said the l’abbis with one voice. Then Lazai'us rose and went out, and, in the vision, the rabbis remained seated, motionless in their places, awaiting his return. The noise of Levi’s hammer echoed through the vaulted chamber, and at each blow the smoking lamp quivei’ed a little, casting stimuge shadows upoD the evil faces beneath its light. At last footsteps, slow and uncertain, were heard without, the low door opened, and Lazarus entei'ed, holding up the body of his son before him. “I have brought him before you for the last time.” he 6aid. “Question him and hear his condemnation out of his own mouth. He l-epents not, though I have done my utmost to bring him back into the path of right eousness. Question him, my masters, and b-t us see what he will say.” \Y 1 xtnd exhausted with long hun ger iiuu inurat, ni3 ooay DroKen oy torture, scarcely any longer sensible to bodily pain, Simon Abeles would have fallen to the ground had his father not held him under the arms. “Hearest thou, Simon, Bon of Laz arus?” asked the rabbis. “Knowest thou in whose presence thou stand est?” • ■I hear you, and I know you all.” There was no fear in the voice, though it trembled from weakness. “Benounce, then, thy errors, and having suffered the chastisement of thy folly, return to the ways of thy father ami of thy father’s house and of all thy people.” “I renounce my sins, and whatso ever is yet left for me to suffer, [ will, by God's help, so bear it as to be not unworthy of Christ’s mercy.” “It is as wo feared,” they said* “He is unrepentant and he is worthy of death. It is not expedient that the young adder should live. There is poison under his longue, and lie speaks things not lawful for an Israel ite to heur. Let him die, that wo may see him no more, and that our children be not corrupted by his false teachings. ” “llearest thou? Thou slialt die.” It was Lazarus who spoke, while holding up the boy before the table and hissing the words into liis ear. It was soon done. The two men took up the cross and sot it, with the body hanging thereon, against the wall of the narrow court, over against the house of Lazarus. “Thou mayest still repent during this night,” said the father, holding up the horn lantern and looking into his son’s tortured face. “Ay—there is yet time,” said Lovi, brutally. “He will not die so soon.” “Lord, into thy hands I commend my spirit,” said the weak voiee once more. Then Lazarus raised his hand and struck him once more on tho mouth, as he had done on the first night when he had seized him near the church. But Levi, the Short-handed, as though in wrath at seeing all his torments fail, dealt him one heavy blow just where the ear joins the neck, and it was over at last. A radiant smile of peace flickered over the pale face, the eyelids quivered and closed, tho head fell forward on the breast, and the martyrdom of Simon Abeles was consummated. inio tne aarK court came the rab bis, one by one, from the inner cham ber, and each, as he came, took up the born lantern and held it to tbo dead face, and smiled, and spoke a few words in the Hebrew tongue, and then went out into the street until only Lazarus and Levi were left alone with the dead body. Then they de bated what they should do, and for a time they went into the house and re freshed themselves with food and wine, and comforted each other, well knowing that they had done an evil deed. And they came back when it was late, and wrapped the body in the coarse cloth and carried it out stealth ily, and buried it in the Jewish ceme tery, and departed again to their own houses. ‘•And there he lay," said Unorna. ■ ‘the hoy of your race who was faith ful to death. Have you sn-ered? Have you for one short hour known the meaning of such great words as you dared to speak to me? Do you know now what it means to be a mar tyr, to suffer for what you believe, to perish in your sufferings? You are stH’ ling on the very spot where he lay, you have felt in some small de gree a part of what he must have felt. You live. Be warned. If again you anger me. your life shall not bo spared you." The visions had all vanished. Again the wilderness of gravestones and lean, crooked trees appeared, wild and desolate as befoie. The Wanderer roused himself and saw Unorna standing beside Israel Kafka's prostrate body. As though suddenly released from a spell, he sprang for ward and knelt down, trying to revive the unconscious man by rubbing bis hands and chafing his temples. Note—The deeds here described were done in Prague on the 21st day of February in the year 1691. Laz arus and his accomplice Levi Kurtz handel, or Breylmanus, or “the Short-handed," were betrayed by their own people. Lazarus hanged himself in prison and Levi suffered death by the wheel—repentant, it is said, and himself baptized. A full ac count of the trial, written in Latin, was printed, and a copy of it may be seen in the State Museum in Prague. The body of Simon Abells was°ex humed, and rests in the Teyn Church, in the chapel on the left of the high altar. The slight extension of certain scenes not fully described in the Latin volume will be pardoned in a work of fiction. CHAPTER XYI. HE Wanderer glanced at Unor na’s face and saw the expression of relentless hatred \ which had set I tied upon her features. [j During the last month he had lived a life of bo’ :v and mental * ■•i.iulence, in v ;.ieh all his keenest percep ' uons ana strong est instincts had been lulled into a semi-dormant state. Unknown to himself, the mainspring of all thought ana action had been taken out of his existence, together with the very memory of it. For years he had f / lived and moved and wandered over the earth, in obedience to one dom inant idea. The belief in a great cruelty and a greater injustice roused the mail who throughout so many days had lived in calm indifference to every aspect of the humanity around him. Seeing that Israel Kafka could not be re stored to consciousness, he rose to his feet again and stood between the prostrate victim and Unorna. “You are killing this man instead of saving him,” hesaid. “His crime, you say, is that he loves you. Is iliat a reason for using all your powers to destroy him in body and mind?” ••Perhaps,” answered Unorna,calm ly, though there was still a dangerous light in her eyes. “No. It is no reason.” answered the Wanderer with a deei-ion to which Unorna was not accustomed. “Ke york tells me the man is mad. He may be. But he loves you, and de serves mercy of you.” “Whatever your art may be. you use it badly and cruelly. A moment ago I was blinded myself. If I bad understood dourly while you were speaking that you were making this poor fello.w suffer in himself the hide ous agony described. I would have stopped you. Y'ou blinded me as you dominated him. But I am not blind now. You shall not torment him any longer^’” “And how would you have s .opped me? How can you hinder me now?” asked Unorna. “By force, if need bo,”he answered, very quietly. “You talk of force to a woman!” she exclaimed, contemptuously. “You are indeed brave!” “Y’ou are not a woman. Y'ou are the incarnation of cruelty. I bavo seen it.” His eyes wore cold and his voice was stern. Unorna felt a very sharp pain and shivered as though she were cold. “■ lon do not know,” she answered. “How should you?” Her glance fell and her voice trembled. “I know enough,” he said. He turned coldly from her, and knelt again beside Israel Kafka. He raised the pale head and sup ported it upon his knee, and gazed anxiously into the face, raising the lids with his linger, as though to con vince himself that the man was not dead. Indeed, there seemed to be but little life left in him, as he lay there with outstretched arms and twisted fingers, scarcely breathing. In such a place, without so much as the commonest restorative to aid him, the Wanderer saw that he had but little chance of success. Then she heard footsteps on the frozen path, and turning quickly she saw that the Wanderer had lilted Kafka’s body from the ground and was moving rapidly away, toward the entrance of the cemetery. He was leaving her in anger, without a word. She turned very pale and hesitated. Then she ran forward to overtake him. but he, hearing her approach, quickened his stride, seemiug but lit tle hampered in his pac3 by the burden he bore. But Unorna, too, was fleet of foot and strong. “Stop!” she cried, laying hor hand upon iiis arm. “Stop! Hear me! Do not leave me so!” But he would not pause and hurried onward toward the gate. “Stop!” she cried again. “1 will save him—I will obey you—I will be kind to him—he will die in your arms if you do not let me help you—oh! for the love of Heaven, wait one mo ment! Only one moment!” She so thrust herself in the Wan derer’s path, hanging upon him and trying to tear Kafka from his arms that lie was forced to stand still and face her. “Let me pass!” ho exclaimed, mak ing another effort to advance. But she clung to him and he could not move. “No—I will not let you go,” she murmured. You can do nothing without me, you will only kill -him as I would have done a moment ago—” “And as you will do now,” he said sternly, “if I let you have your way. ” “By all that is holy in heaven, I will save him—he shall not even re member—” “Ho not swear. I shall not believe you. “You will believe when you see— you will forgive me—you will under derstand. ’ ’ Without answering he exerted his strength and, clasping the insensible man more firmly in his arms, he made one or two steps forward. Unorna's foot slipped on the frozen ground and she would have fallen to the earth, but she clung to him with desperate energy. Seeing that she was in dan ger of some bodily hurt if he used greater force, the Wanderer stopped again, uncertain how to act. Unorna stood before him, panting a little from the struggle, her face as white as death. “Unless you kill me,” she said, “you shall not take him away so. Hold him in your arms, if you will, but lot me speak to him.” “And how shall I know that you will not harm him, you who hate him sa you do?” “Am I not at your mercy?” asked Unorna. “If I deceive you, can you not do what you will with me, even if I try to resist you, which I will not? Hold me if you choose, lest I should escape you, and if Israel Kafka does not recover his strength and his con sciousness, then take me with you and deliver me up to justice as a witch— as a murderess, if you will.” The Wanderer was silent for a mo ment. Then he realized that what she said was true. She was in his power. “Restore him if you can,” he said. Unorna laid her hands upon Kafka’s forehead, and bending down, whis pered into his ear words which wert ( inaudible even to the man who held Mtn. “IIow came I here?” he asked In surprise. “What has happened to me?” “You fainted,” said Unorna. quiet ly. “You remember that you were very tired after your journey. The walk was too much for you. We will take you home.” “Yes—yes—I must have fainted. Forgive me—it comes over me some times.” He evidently had complete control of his faculties at the present moment, but he glanced curiously from the one to the other of his two companions, as they all three began to walk toward the gate. Unorna avoided his -yes. and seemed to be looking at the ir.eg ular slabs they passed on their way. In the dilemma in which the Wander er found himself there was nothing to be done but to bo guided by circum stances. He was not willing to leave Kafka alone with the woman who hated him, and he saw no means of escaping her society so long as she choose to im pose it upon them both. He supposed, too. that Unorna realized this as well as he did, and he tried to be prepared for all events by revolving all the possibilities in his mind. But Unorna was absorbed by very different thoughts. From time to time she stole a glance at his face, and she saw that it was stern and cold as ever. She had kept her word, but he did not relent. A terrible anxiety overwhelmed her. It was possible, even probable, that he would henceforth avoid her. She had gone too far. She had not reckoned upon such a nature as his, capable of being roused to implacable anger by mere sympathy for the suffering of an other. Then, understanding it at last, she had thought it would be enough that those sufferings should be forgotten by him upon whom they had been inflicted. She could not comprehend tlio horror he felt for her self and for her hideous cruelty. She had entered the cemetery in the con seiousness of her strong will and of her mysterious powers certain of vic tory; sure, that having once sacrificed her pride and stooped so low as to command what should have come of itself, she should see his face change and hear the ring of passion in his passionless voice. She had failed in that, and utterly. She had been sur prised by her worst enemy. She had been laughed to scorn in the moment of her deepest humiliation, and she had lost the foundations of friendship in the attempt to build upon them the hanging garden of an artificial love. In that moment, as they reached the gate, Unorna was not far from de spair. A Jewish boy, with puffed red lips and curving nostrils, was loitering at the entrance. The Wanderer told him to find a carriage. “Two Carriages,” said Unorna. qui-kly. The boy ran out. -Twill go home alone,” she added. “You two can drive together.” “It is the best arrangement—do you not think so?” she asked. “Quite the best.” “I shall be gratified if you will bring me word of him,” she said, glancing at Kafka. The Wanderer was silent as though he had not heard. “Have you been in pain? Do you feel as though you had been suffer ing?” she asked of the youuger man. in a tone of sympathy and solicitude. “No. Why do you ask?” “Permit me,” he said. “I was be fore you here.” “You will let me know, will you not?” she said. “I am anxious about him.” He raised his eyebrows a little, and dropped her hand. “You shall be informed, ” he said. Kafka helped her get into the car ljfcge. She drew him by the hand so tfcat his head was inside the door, and the other man could not hear her words. “I am anxious about you,” she said, very kindly. “Make him come him self to me and tell me how you are.” “Surely—if you asked him—” “He hates me,” whispered Unorna quickly. “Unless you make him come, he will send no message.” “Then let me come myself—I am perfectly well” — “Hush—no!” she answ-ered hur riedly. ‘ ‘Do as I say—it will be best for you—and for me. Good-by.” “lour word is my law,” said Kafka drawing back. “You are in need of rest.” said the Wanderer watching him curiously. “Indeed, I am very tired, if not actually ill.” •■You have suffered enough to tire the strongest.” “In what way?” asked Kafka. “I have forgotten what happened. 1 know that I followed Unorna to the cemetery. I had been to her house, and I saw you afterward together. I had not spoken to her since I came back from my long journey this morn ing. Tell me what occurred. Did she make me sleep? I feel as I have felt before when I fancied that sheh^s hypnotized me.” “Yes,” he answered. “She made you sleep.” “Why? Do you know? If she made me dream anythlng’I have for gotten it.” The Wanderer hesitated a moment. “I cannot answer your question,” he said at length. ‘ ‘Ah—she told me that you hated her,” said Kafka, turning his dark eyes to his companion. “But yet” he added, “that is hardly a reason why you should not tell me what hap pened.” ■ ‘I could not tell you the truth with out sqying something which I have no right to say to a strange r—which I could not easily say to a friend.” “You need not spare me—” “It might save you.” “Then say it—though I do not know from what danger I am to be Bared. But I can guess, perhaps. You would advise mo to giro up the attempt to win her?” “Precisely. I need say no more.” “On the contrary,” said Kafka, with sudden energy, “whon a mac gives such advice as that to a stranger he is bound to give also his reasons.” The Wanderer looked at him calm ly as he answered: “One man need hardly give a reason for saving another man’s life. Yours is in danger." “I see that you hate her, as she said you did.” "You and she are both mistaken in that. I am not in love with her, and I have ceased to bo her friend. As for my interests in you, it doos not even pretend to be friendly. It is that which any man may feel for a fellow being, and what any man would feel who had seen what I have seen this afternoon.” The calm bearing and speech of the experienced man of the world carried weight with it in the eyes of the young Moravian. “If I am to lose her love, I would rather lose my life also, and by her hand,” he said hotly. “You are warning me against her. I fool that you are honest, and I see that you are in earnest. I thank you. If I am in danger, do hot try to save me. 1 saw her face a few moments ago, and she spoke to me. I cannot be lieve that she is plotting my destruc tion.” "What did she say to me when I was asleep?” he asked after a short pause. “Did you ever hear the story of Simon Abeles?” the Wanderer in quired, by way of answer. Kafka frowned and looked round sharply. “Simon Abeles? He was a renegado Hebrew boy. Ilis father killed him. He is buried in the Teyn Church? What of him? W'hat has he to do with Unorna or with, me? I am myself a Jew. The time has gone by when we Jews hid our heads. I am proud of what I am, and I will never be a Christian. What can Simon Abeles have to do with me?” “Little enough, now that you are awake.” “And when I was asleep—what then? She made me see him, per haps?” "She made you live his life. She made you suffer all that he suffered' _11 “What?” cried Israel Kafka, in a loud and angry tone. “What I say,” returned the other, quietly. “And you did not interfere? You did not interfere? No—of course—I forgot that you are a Christian.” “I would have stopped her if 1 could,” he said. 1 ‘Were you sleeping, too?” asked Kafka hotly. “I cannot tell. I was powerless, though I was conscious. I saw only Simon Abeles in it all, though I seemed to be aware that you and he were one person. I did interfere so soon as I was free to move. I think I saved your life. I was carrying you away in my arms when she waked you.” “1 Lhank you—I suppose it is as you tell me. You could not move, but you saw it all, you say. You saw me play the part of the apostate, you heard me confess the Christian's faith?” “Yes—I saw you die in agony, con fessing it still.” Israel Kafka ground his teeth and turned his face away. The Wanderer was silent. A few moments latter the carriage stopped at the door of Kafka’s lodging. The latsr turned to his companion, who was startled by the change in the young face. The mouth was not closely set, the fea tures seemed bolder, the eyes harder and more manly, a look of greater dignity and strength was in the whole. “You do not love her?” he asked. “Do you give me your word that you do not love her?” “If you need so much to assure you of it, 1 give you my word. I do not love her.” "Will you come with me for a few moments? I live here.” The Wanderer made a gesture of assent. In a few moments they found themselves in a large room furnished almost in eastern fashion, with few objects, but those of great value. Israel Kafka was alone in the world and was rich. There were two or three divans, a few low, octagonal, inlaid tables, a dozen or more splen did weapons hung upon the wall and the polished wooden floor was partly covered, with extremely rich carpets. ‘•Do you know what she said to me when I helped her into the car riage?” asked Kafka. ‘•No. I did not attempt to hear.” “She did not mean that you should hear her. She made mo promise to send y/u to her with news of myself. She SijfA that you hated her and would not go to her unless I begged you to do so. Is that true?” ‘•I have told you that I do not hate her. I hate her cruelty. I will cer tainly not go to her of my own choice.” “She said that I had fainted. That was a lie. She invented ii as an ex cuse to attract you, on the ground of her interest in my condition.” “Evidently.” “She hates me with an extreme hatred. Her real interest lay in show ing you how terrible that hatred could be. It is not possible to con ceive of anything more diabolically bad than what she did to me. She made me her sport—yours, too, per haps, or she would, at least, have wished it. On that holy ground where my people lie in peace she made me deny my faith, she made me, in your eyes and her own, personate a renegade of my race, she made me confess in the Christian creed, she made me seem to die for a belief I ab I ■ mW hor. Can you conceive of anything more devilish? A moment inter tihe smiles upon me and presses my hand, andisanx’ous to know of my good health. And but for you I should never have known what she had done to me. I owe you gratitude, though it. be for the worst pain I ever have suffered. Hut do you think i will for give her?” “You would bo forgiving if you could.” said the Wanderer, ills own anger rising again at the remem brance of what he had seen. “And do you think that I can love still?” “No.” “You are mistaken. I lovo hot with all my heart. I will therefore kill her.” • She made me promise to bend you to her, if you would go,” ho said. “Will you go to her now?” “What shall 1 tell he? I warn you that since-” “You need not warn me. 1 know what you would say. Hut I will he no common murderer. I will not kill her as she would have killed me. Warn her, not me. Go to her and say, ‘Israel Kafka has promised before God that he will take your blood in expiation, and there is no es cape from the man who is himsell ready to die.’ Tell her to fly for her life, and that quickly." ‘And what will you gain by doing this murder?” asked the Wanderer, calmly. He was revolving schemes for Unorna’s safety, and half amazed to find himself forced in common hu manity to take her part, “I shall free myself of my shame in loving her, at the price of her blood and mine. Will you go?” “And what is to prevent me from delivering you over to safe-keeping before you do this deed?” ••You have no witness,” answered Kafka with a smile. “You are a stranger in the city and in this coun try, and I am rich. I shall easily prove that you '.ovo Unornu, and that you wish to got rid of mo out of jeal ousy.” “That is true.” said the Wanderer, thoughtfully. “1 will go.” “Go quickly, then,” said Israel Kafka, “ for I shall follow soon.” As the Wanderer left the room, ho saw the Moravian turn toward the p aie where the keen, splendid east ern weapons hung upon the wall. CHAPTER XVII. HE Wanderer knew that the ease was urgent and the danger great. There was no mis taking the tone ot Israel Kafka’s voice, nor the look in his face. Unorna’s act had brought tho sever al seemingly con tradictory olo ments of his char acter to bear upon one point. He had '"ti reauzeu in me same moment that it was impossible for her to love him; that her changing treatment of him was not the result of caprice, but of a fixed plan of her own. in the ’ execution of which she would spare him neither falsehood nor insult; tha to love such a woman was the lowest degradation; that ho could neverthet lessjnot destroy that love; and, finally, that the only escape from his shame lay in her destruction, and that this must, in all probability, involve his own death also. At the same time ho felt that there was something solemn in the expiation he was about to ex act, something that accorded well with the fierce traditions of ancient Israel, and the deed should not be done stealthily or in the dark. Unor na must know that she was to die by his hand, and why. He had no ob ject in concealment, for his own life was already ended by the certainty that his love was hopeless, and on the other hand, fatalist as he was, he believed that Unorna could not es cape him, and that no warning could save her. The Wanderer understood most of these things as he hastened toward her house through the darkening streets. He saw himself in a very strange position. Half an hour had not elapsed since he had watched Unorna driving away from the cemetery, and had inwardly determined that ho would never, if possible, set eyes on her again. Scarcely two hours earlier ho had been speak ing to her of the sincere friend ship which he felt was growing up for her in his heart. Since then he had learned, almost beyond the possibility of a doubt, that she loved him, and that he had learned, too, to despise her. lie had left her, meaning that the parting should be final, and now he was hurrying to her house to give her the warning which alone could save her from destruction. But there was aoant time for reflec tion upon the problem of his own mis i sion in the world as he hastened to ward Unorna’s house. His present mission was clear and simple enough, though by no means easy of accom plishment. What Israel Kafka had told him was true. Should he attempt a denunciation he would have little chance of being believea- It would he easy enough for Kafka to bring wit nesses to prove his own love for Unorna and the Wanderer’s intimacy with her during the past month, and the latter's consequent interest i.n dis posing summit! lly of his Moravian rival. [TO BE CONTINUED.] The water of the central basin of the Mediterranean has been found to be warmer, deuser, and richer in dis solved salts than the western. While a white disk was onlv visible at forty three meters photographic plates were affected at 500 meters.