"It is not so, Sarah. I would have come of myself--only thou wouldst not see my face."

"I have seen it for twenty years--it is another's turn now."

He was silent.

"It is true all the same--I am on my death-bed."

He started. A pang shot through his breast. He darted an agitated glance at her face.

"Is it not so? In this bed I shall die. But G.o.d knows how many years I shall lie in it."

Her calm gave him an uncanny shudder.

"And till the Holy One, blessed be He, takes me, thou wilt live a daily sinner."

"I am not to blame. G.o.d has stricken me. I am a young man."

"Thou art to blame!" Her eyes flashed fire. "Blasphemer! Life is sweet to thee--yet perchance thou wilt die before me."

His face grew livid. "I am a young man," he repeated tremulously.

"Dost thou forget what Rabbi Eliezer said? 'Repent one day before thy death'--that is to-day, for who knows?"

"What wouldst thou have me do?"

"Give up--"

"No, no," he interrupted. "It is useless. I cannot. I am so lonely."

"Give up," she repeated inexorably, "thy wife."

"What sayest thou? My wife! But she is not my wife. Thou art my wife."

"Even so. Give me up. Give me _Get_ (divorce)."

His breath failed, his heart thumped at the suggestion.

"Give thee _Get_!" he whispered.

"Yes. Why didst thou not send me a bill of divorcement when I left thy home for this?"

He averted his face. "I thought of it," he stammered. "And then--"

"And then?" He seemed to see a sardonic glitter in the gray eyes.

"I--I was afraid."

"Afraid!" She laughed in grim mirthlessness. "Afraid of a bed-ridden woman!"

"I was afraid it would make thee unhappy." The sardonic gleam melted into softness, then became more terrible than before.

"And so thou hast made me happy instead!"

"Stab me not more than I merit. I did not think people would be cruel enough to tell thee."

"Thine own lips told me."

"Nay--by my soul," he cried, startled.

"Thine eyes told me, then."

"I feared so," he said, turning them away. "When she came into my house, I--I dared not go to see thee--that was why I did not come, though I always meant to, Sarah, my life. I feared to look thee in the eyes. I foresaw they would read the secret in mine--so I was afraid."

"Afraid!" she repeated bitterly. "Afraid I would scratch them out!

Nay, they are good eyes. Have they not seen my heart? For twenty years they have been my light.... Those eyes and mine have seen our children die."

Spasmodic sobs came thickly now. Swallowing them down, she said, "And she--did she not ask thee to give me _Get_?"

"Nay, she was willing to go without. She said thou wast as one dead--look not thus at me. It is the will of G.o.d. It was for thy sake, too, Sarah, that she did not become my wife by law. She, too, would have spared thee the knowledge of her."

"Yes; ye have both tender hearts! She is a mother in Israel, and thou art a spark of our father Abraham."

"Thou dost not believe what I say?"

"I can disbelieve it, and still remain a Jewess."

Then, satire boiling over into pa.s.sion, she cried vehemently, "We are threshing empty ears. Thinkest thou I am not aware of the Judgments--I, the granddaughter of Reb Shloumi (the memory of the righteous for a blessing)? Thinkest thou I am ignorant thou couldst not obtain a _Get_ against me--me who have borne thee children, who have wrought no evil? I speak not of the _Beth-Din_, for in this impious country they are loath to follow the Judgments, and from the English _Beth-Din_ thou wouldst find it impossible to obtain the _Get_ in any case, even though thou didst not marry me in this country, nor according to its laws. I speak of our own _Rabbonim_--thou knowest even the Maggid would not give thee _Get_ merely because thy wife is bed-ridden. That--that is what thou wast afraid of."

"But if thou art willing,--" he replied eagerly, ignoring her scornful scepticism.

His readiness to accept the sacrifice was salt upon her wounds.

"Thou deservest I should let thee burn in the lowest Gehenna," she cried.

"The Almighty is more merciful than thou," he answered. "It is He that hath ordained it is not good for man to live alone. And yet men shun me--people talk--and she--she may leave me to my loneliness again."

His voice faltered with self-pity. "Here thou hast friends, nurses, visitors. I--I have nothing. True, thou didst bear me children, but they withered as by the evil eye. My only son is across the ocean; he hath no love for me or thee."

The recital of their common griefs softened her toward him.

"Go!" she whispered. "Go and send me the _Get_. Go to the Maggid, he knew my grandfather. He is the man to arrange it for thee with his friends. Tell him it is my wish."

"G.o.d shall reward thee. How can I thank thee for giving thy consent?"

"What else have I to give thee, my Herzel, I who eat the bread of strangers? Truly says the Proverb, 'When one begs of a beggar the Herr G.o.d laughs!'"

"I will send thee the _Get_ as soon as possible."

"Thou art right, I am a thorn in thine eye. Pluck me out quickly."