"To your G.o.d, the G.o.d of the Jews," said the old man, sorrowfully. "I understand you have returned to him. Nevertheless it is true--he is not the G.o.d of Jews or of Christians only. You know little of our creed.

Learn it."

"I know enough," she exclaimed, wildly. "It is a creed of love, of humanity. It ordains that doors should be opened to the pretty, wealthy Jewess, especially if the owner of the doors is in debt to her father; that young gentleman may talk more unrestrainedly with her than with ladies who are Christians. She, indeed, may feel no strangeness in that society, for she looks upon them as fellow-creatures. But her father and brother do not count as men with them: they are only Jews--of whom the men are born to make money which Christians may borrow, and the women to cater to your enjoyment by their beauty. If a Jewess loses her heart to a Christian and forsakes all to follow him, his religion teaches men never to forget her creed. And then you call your religion one of love!"

She sobbed bitterly, and, loosening a lock of hair, through whose auburn brightness ran a band of silver, she held it up for him to see.

"I am twenty-two years old, doctor; need I say more?"

"Have not the Jews done their share in increasing those gray hairs?

Even you have the commandment, 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' It is one of the most important of your creed, as it is of ours. Do your people act up to it? Remember your reception here."

"I deserved the treatment I received. What did they know? what do they know to-day, except that I am a dishonored woman and my father's murderess? But if you were right, and we had the same laws and sinned against them, still peace and springtide might some day visit the earth; but now it is winter, and we are at war. In winter we stay at home, and in wartime we do not desert to the enemy's camp. If you are correct in saying your altar is a sanctuary of G.o.d, then I must not desecrate it. What would be my thoughts when I bent over the font? Of what would I think during the marriage ceremony? After all that has pa.s.sed, it would be my worst sin. And I fear G.o.d. I remember how my father thought of it, and for his sake it is now impossible. When I stood by his grave yesterday, it was clear to me that he was a G.o.d-fearing man, and would not have counselled me to lie in sacred matters."

"He was a kind man, too, and knew how much G.o.d could forgive. He himself forgave much."

"Yes, misdeeds against himself, but not against G.o.d. He thought: 'My child has broken my heart. G.o.d will punish her, but I will forgive her.

As she will suffer much, let her rest by my side; and when at the last day the trumpet sounds, let her go before the Judge with her hand in mine.' This is what he meant, and it would be hard to surrender this privilege. Yet for my child's sake I would make the sacrifice, only I cannot sin again, even for him."

He looked at her white, inflexible face, and ventured no further remark. He arose silently, pressed her hand, and turned to go. A slight exclamation detained him; it sounded like a sigh. He looked around inquiringly.

She stood, her head slightly inclined, her face scarlet. "One thing more. If he could resolve to--"

"What?" he said, encouragingly.

But she sighed deeply, and dropped her arms. "No," she said. "He will not do that. He cannot, and according to our laws it is out of the question. He would only deride me for thinking of it. Pardon me, I have no more to say."

He asked again, but she answered decidedly, "It is nothing," and he went away.

He now had the unpleasant duty of conveying her answer to Agenor. But the latter was more collected than he had feared. He turned pale and said, "I told you so," and during the doctor's recital betrayed his excitement only by the nervous drumming of his fingers on the table.

"As G.o.d wills," he said, when the doctor had concluded. "I have at least the comfort of knowing I have done what I could. If she bring an accusation against me, you will not refuse to testify to my desire to grant all she could demand."

"No, but unwillingly," said the old gentleman, brusquely. This question of the count's annoyed him, but only for a moment, for he knew it was quite in keeping with a weak character, which was impelled by fear as well as by penitence; and then, to feel he had done his whole duty, he told the count her last words.

They had a startling effect. He leaped from his seat, with flaming cheeks, and, holding out his hands in protestation, he exclaimed: "That cannot be. Better the prison. How can she imagine such a thing?"

"She does not. She did not even tell me what it was, and I should prefer not to know."

"He is not so bad, after all," thought the doctor, as he went down-stairs. "He is in a bad position, and is pitiably weak. I'll wager he comes to me asking me to make another attempt before three days are over."

In this he was mistaken, for Agenor came to him the same evening. "Do have a talk with Raphael. He is the only one to influence her, and it cannot be a matter of indifference to him whether his sister lives here as my wife or as she is at present."

The doctor refused point-blank. "It would be useless. To him she is dead." And in this he was firm, despite prayers and entreaties.

Yet the good old man did go to Raphael the next day. What the count could not effect, Miriam Gold did. Shortly after Agenor's visit, she went in cautiously with a thousand apologies for disturbing him at such an hour. "But I had to come. My heart cries out, 'Tell Dr. Reiser,' and so I am here."

"Say what you wish, Miriam. But I cannot make any further effort for reconciliation between Judith and the count."

"Who speaks of that? Praise to the Father Everlasting that it has failed! While you were with her, I prayed to G.o.d so to confuse your words that they might not persuade her to become a renegade. I know G.o.d better than most people about here. My heart says he was merciful to Leah, and he will also be merciful to Judith." Her voice sank to a whisper. "Doctor, her soul is in a bad way! It is like a poor little bird that is longing to fly away, but is held back by a few slender threads. She must care for her child, justify herself in the sight of the people, and fulfil G.o.d's will. As long as she has to undergo disgrace and persecution she will stay, because she takes that as a punishment from G.o.d. But if she married the count, she would be justified, her child would be safe, and persecution cease. Then the threads would be severed, and the poor little bird would fly away."

"I fear that in any case. Has she ever hinted at it to you?"

"No. But when one lives with her, and hears her sigh! Thank G.o.d, you have not succeeded. Yet I should like to have another thread to bind her to earth. Her heart bleeds over Raphael's anger. If they could only be reconciled! It is true the thread of persecution would then be loosened," and the old woman gesticulated as if the network of threads were really there. "Yet not completely. I know our people too well.

Doctor, because you have a good heart, and she is so miserable, will you not speak to Raphael?"

"It will be useless," he said, and yet he gave his promise.

When he was with Raphael, and beheld the stern face of a morose man of mature years, instead of the bright look of a young man of twenty-three, his heart failed, and he had only hinted at his errand when he arose.

"Dr. Reiser," said a cool, collected voice. "That name must never be mentioned in my house. A few days ago the elders of the congregation called to ask me to see that the boy was received into the covenant of Israel. To them I made answer that I had no right or duty in the matter. And yet a sacred question was therein involved."

"No holier than that which brought me here. If you listened to the elders, you should listen to me also." He then talked of Judith plainly and to the point, as was his wont; and he thought to himself, no heart could be so hard as to listen unmoved.

Raphael gave no sign of impatience, but when he turned his face to the doctor, the latter knew he had spoken in vain. It was the face of one who had forgotten to be merciful.

"You have told me nothing new. It is a hard fate, which you say is undeserved. I say it is deserved. For my part, I will neither add to nor take away from its misery. 'Vengeance is mine,' saith the Lord. For me, she is dead. You say she made no sacrifice of her honor, that she was tricked out of it. Let her accuse her betrayer. It is enough for me to know the well-guarded child of the best of fathers is a lost woman--the first of her faith in this town for centuries. She will not become a Christian? There is no merit in that. It is her duty, and her repentance cannot recall my father to life or wash the stain from our name."

"Herr Trachtenberg, this is exceptional severity."

"Perhaps not as exceptional," and here there was a break in his voice for the first time, "as my former love for her."

At the door the doctor found the count's carriage. The count was with the magistrate Groze, Fedko said. Had he been asked to call? the doctor queried; and then he had time to think again of Miriam's curious words.

He did not believe in them, and yet they depressed him. The thread could not be tied; it had been cut for all time.

On his return home that afternoon from a round of visits, Dr. Reiser was informed that Count Baranowski and old Miriam had called, and that the latter had begged to know when he returned. "Go and tell her!" was the order.

Wearied out, he had scarcely seated himself, when the count entered.

The latter looked wretched, and his eye was restless. "Forgive me, but I could not rest. Fedko told me you had been to Raphael, after all.

What did he say?"

The doctor told him.

"Then, I have no occasion to repent the step I have taken to-day. I was afraid I had been in too much of a hurry."

His tone contradicted his words, for it was very shaky. He sighed profoundly. "I have been to Groze's, and, following my lawyer's advice, have confessed all."

"How did he receive you?"

"Worse than I expected. He said nothing offensive, but he looked very angry, and refused my hand when I took leave. He also said he would expect me at his office to-morrow morning at eleven. Well, as G.o.d will!

Anyhow, it was not--"

Suddenly the old gentleman, who had been staring into the street, jumped up, took him by the arm, and led him into the adjoining room. He had seen Judith, her child in her arms, and Miriam, following his servant to the house. "You may listen," he whispered to Agenor, leaving the door ajar as he re-entered the other room.

Judith's cheeks were bright and her eyes flashed. "You are my only friend and will not take it amiss if I ask for advice. This paper was served upon me at noon to-day."

He opened the doc.u.ment. "The magistrate Groze summons you as witness to-morrow morning at eleven. You can imagine in what case you are called, I suppose; and if not, I can inform you. The count has surrendered himself to the law."

"Ah!" she exclaimed, "to mitigate his punishment."

"Even if that were the case, can you blame him? He has shown his penitence conclusively enough, but you remain irreconcilable. You will meet him tomorrow in the presence of the judge, for he has been summoned also."