By a sign he indicated to Jankiel the sacred word inscribed on the door, and, approaching with veneration an open volume of the Talmud, turned the leaves respectfully. For many years he had not come in contact with the Hebrew characters and the language of the commandments, but he remembered the days of his childhood, when his father taught him secretly to read that language which had come upon earth from the mouth of G.o.d. At first he could hardly read the letters, but little by little light dawned upon him, and with intense delight he read on, oblivious to all around him; the day's combat, the tragedy of the morrow, his military rank, Russia, his Czar, and the entire world were all forgotten.

His eyes, unused to weep, were full of tears, of regret or of consolation it would have been difficult to say which; probably the two sentiments were united.

By chance his eyes fell upon this prayer for the dead:--

"G.o.d of mercy, deign to remember the men who have been more swift than the eagles and stronger than the lions in the accomplishment of thy holy will, and do not forget to show thy vengeance on those who have shed the blood of thy servants."

Jankiel contemplated with emotion that which seemed to him a miracle.

The colonel, after reading for some time, seemed overcome, and leaned back in his chair. His host said to him gently:--

"G.o.d will be merciful to those who repent."

"I do not know," answered the servant of the Czar, "which I ought to regret more,--what I have been, or what I am; but is it my own fault that I am a renegade? My father chose for himself and for me. I belong to-day to an alien race. I weep when I remember Israel, until a wild madness possesses my spirit; then I tremble lest they may recognize under his new skin the cursed Jew. I tremble for fear I may betray myself by pitying a brother Jew. My children do not know that the blood of Jewish rabbis flows in their veins. Ah, may they never know that they are the children of a traitor, of an apostate!"

"Brother," said Jankiel, hastening to take advantage of his softened mood, "what are you going to do with the prisoner?"

"Do not speak of him. He is condemned by superior orders. To-morrow will be his last day on earth. I am sorry, but I can do nothing."

"It is a pity. Perhaps he has a mother, a sister, or a wife. I wish I could be permitted to see him."

"What is he to you? What have we Jews in common with the Poles? Have you forgotten their conduct toward our people?"

"I do not forget that we are born on the same soil," said the old man.

"And our immortal lawgiver orders us to raise the burden from the weary beast. Should we have less compa.s.sion for a man, even if he were a pagan?"

"I am under the surveillance of a thousand evil eyes. You can, however, buy my soldiers with brandy or money. For money these wretches would sell their own father and mother. And then you may do what you can for the unfortunate man."

"You will permit it? I will send my kinsman in my place. He will be safe, will he not?"

"I permit nothing. I will shut my eyes, and I wish to know nothing of it."

Jankiel left the colonel for a moment to tell Jacob, and found him dressed ready for any emergency. He had already arranged a plan with an old Jew named Herszko, nicknamed the Madre. He put on his old clothes, with two bottles of rum in his pockets, and they went out on the street. The hour was late, the soldiers snored, and the sentinel walked slowly on his beat. Before the house where the prisoner was shut up an under officer watched, seated on a bench. He cursed and swore between his teeth. Fortunately, he was a confirmed drunkard, by name Fedor Michailovitch Chelmenko. As soon as he saw the two Jews in the distance he immediately thought that this might bring him a rouble, or at least a gla.s.s of brandy.

"Good-evening, officer," said the Madre; he saw that this was only an underling, but gave him the full t.i.tle, hoping thereby to tickle his vanity.

"Pa.s.s thy way, Jew!" cried Chelmenko.

"You must be weary, seated on this bench."

"Certainly it is not very pleasant."

"Then why do you remain here?"

"What is that to you?"

"Excuse me, mere curiosity."

Herszko mischievously showed the neck of the bottle as if it were about to leap out of his pocket; Chelmenko saw it; the very sight of it made his mouth water.

"Let me taste it, miscreant," cried he.

"You guess what it is? No? Well, it is the genuine Jamaica rum, worth a rouble and a half a bottle."

"Let me see, quick!"

Madre handed him the bottle; the officer put it to his lips and swallowed some of the rum with great enjoyment, then said:--

"Now tell me what this means?"

"Officer," answered the old man, "my companion is a Jew, as well as myself. We have heard, but perhaps we are misinformed, that your prisoner is called Bakowski; if so, he owes a large sum of money to my companion, who wishes to see him, and get his money, if possible."

"Rebels, rascals, knaves, get out of here! Don't you know that no one can see the prisoner? It is strictly forbidden."

Without hesitation Madre deposited on the bench the other bottle, and beside it three roubles.

"No one. I cannot let any one enter," murmured the Muscovite; then after a moment of reflection he added:--

"Follow me."

"Not I, but my companion," said the old man.

"Which you like. It is nothing to me."

Chelmenko, already tipsy, conducted Jacob to a door which he opened with a key. He pushed him into the room and shut the door after him.

The dark apartment was lighted by a single tallow candle, which hung in a lantern suspended from the ceiling. By this uncertain light Jacob saw stretched on a straw pallet in the corner a human form with one arm extended. From the breast of the man came deep and broken respiration like that of the dying.

The condemned made an effort to carry his hand to his wounded leg, but he fell back heavily with a sharp cry. His head was a little raised, and by the ray of light which fell on his face, Jacob, with a great cry of sorrow, recognized Ivas.

With disordered hair, foaming mouth, and wild eyes, the young man raved:--

"I am ready. March! A ball in my leg! No matter! Down with the Muscovites! Let us attack them!"

Then silence.

"Ivas! Ivas!" cried Jacob. "Don't you know me?" The sick man turned, his eyes toward him.

"You? Who are you?" said he. "Pole or Russian? A spy, perhaps. Yet that voice! Aqua Sola! Lucie Coloni! Paris--the boulevards! Who are you?"

"Jacob, your friend Jacob."

"Ah! Jacob the patriarch. Are you also a rebel? Oh, my leg, my leg! It is terrible!"

"Ivas, try to collect your thoughts," said Jacob. "Perhaps I can be useful to you."

"Certainly! More arms, more ammunition. Give them to me!"

"My brother, you are wounded; a prisoner condemned."