ttle slave, brought aromatic
coffee in cups of opal, and alabaster spittoons, and pipes of the
fragrant Gibelly.

"My lord's pipe is out," said Miriam with a smile, remarking the
bewilderment of her guest--who in truth forgot to smoke--and taking up
a thousand pound note from a bundle on the piano, she lighted it at
the taper and proceeded to re-illumine the extinguished chibouk of Lord
Codlingsby.

IV.

When Miriam, returning to the mother-of-pearl music-stool, at a signal
from her brother, touched the silver and enamelled keys of the ivory
piano, and began to sing, Lord Codlingsby felt as if he were listening
at the gates of Paradise, or were hearing Jenny Lind.

"Lind is the name of the Hebrew race; so is Mendelssohn, the son of
Almonds; so is Rosenthal, the Valley of the Roses: so is Lowe or Lewis
or Lyons or Lion. The beautiful and the brave alike give cognizances
to the ancient people: you Saxons call yourselves Brown, or Smith, or
Rodgers," Rafael observed to his friend; and, drawing the instrument
from his pocket, he accompanied his sister, in the most ravishing
manner, on a little gold and jewelled harp, of the kind peculiar to his
nation.

All the airs which the Hebrew maid selected were written by composers
of her race; it was either a hymn by Rossini, a polacca by Braham, a
delicious romance by Sloman, or a melody by Weber, that, thrilling on
the strings of the instrument, wakened a harmony on the fibres of the
heart; but she sang no other than the songs of her nation.

"Beautiful one! sing ever, sing always," Codlingsby thought. "I
could sit at thy feet as under a green palm-tree, and fancy that
Paradise-birds were singing in the boughs."

Rafael read his thoughts. "We have Saxon blood too in our veins,"
he said. "You smile! but it is even so. An ancestress of ours made
a mesalliance in the reign of your King John. Her name was Rebecca,
daughter of Isaac of York, and she married in Spain, whither she had
fled to the Court of King Boabdil, Sir Wilfred of Ivanhoe; then a
widower by the demise of his first lady, Rowena. The match was deemed a
cruel insult amongst our people but Wilfred conformed, and was a Rabbi
of some note at the synagogue of Cordova. We are descended from him
lineally. It is the only blot upon the escutcheon of the Mendozas."

As they sat talking together, the music finished, and Miriam having
retired (though her song and her beauty were still present to the soul
of the stran