?"

"Hush, hush! the Dona hears us--she is my wife, and thou thyself hast
given her today proof of thy taste and poetic skill."

It was not without some trace of his former embarrassment that the
Spaniard greeted the beautiful lady, who amiably regretted that she, by
expressing herself so plainly, had pained a friend of her husband.

"Ah, Senora," replied Don Isaac, "he who grasps too clumsily at a rose
must not complain if the thorns scratch. When the star of evening
reflects its golden light in the azure flood"--

"I beg of you!" interrupted the Rabbi, "to cease! If we wait till the
star of evening reflects its golden light in the azure flood, my wife
will starve, for she has eaten nothing since yesterday, and suffered
much in the mean-while."

"Well, then, I will take you to the best restaurant of Israel," said Don
Isaac, "to the house of my friend Schnapper-Elle, which is not far away.
I already smell the savory odors from the kitchen! Oh, didst thou but
know, O Abraham, how this odor appeals to me. This it is which, since I
have dwelt in this city, has so often lured me to the tents of Jacob.
Intercourse with God's people is not a hobby of mine, and truly it is
not to pray, but to eat, that I visit the Jews' Street."

"Thou hast never loved us, Don Isaac."

"Well," continued the Spaniard, "I like your food much better than your
creed--which wants the right sauce. I never could rightly digest you.
Even in your best days, under the rule of my ancestor David, who was
king over Judah and Israel, I never could have held out, and certainly I
should some fine morning have run away from Mount Zion and emigrated to
Phoenicia or Babylon, where the joys of life foamed in the temple of
the gods."

"Thou blasphemest, Isaac, blasphemest the one God," murmured the Rabbi
grimly. "Thou art much worse than a Christian--thou art a heathen, a
servant of idols."

"Yes, I am a heathen, and the melancholy, self-tormenting Nazarenes are
quite as little to my taste as the dry and joyless Hebrews. May our dear
Lady of Sidon, holy Astarte, forgive me, that I kneel before the many
sorrowed Mother of the Crucified and pray. Only my knee and my tongue
worship death--my heart remains true to life. But do not look so
sourly," continued the Spaniard, as he saw what little gratification his
words seemed to give the Rabbi. "Do not look at me with disdain. My nose
is not a renegade. When once by chance I came into this street at dinner
tim