from
the cabin of a pungy boat. His words rang in the cold air like
dropping icicles articulate.

"I know you, Issachar," exclaimed the outcast preacher. "They say that
you are hard and avaricious. Your people were bond slaves once to
every nation. This is the birth night of my faith. In the name of
Joseph, who fed your brethren when they were starving, with their
father, for corn, give me a few oysters, that we may live, and not
die!"

The Jew felt the supplication. He was reminded of Christmas eve. The
poorest family on Chincoteague had bought his liquor that night for a
carouse, or brought from the distant court-house town something for
the children's stockings. Before him was one whose service had been
that powerful religion, shivering in the light of its natal star on
the loneliest sea-shore of the Atlantic. He had harmed no man, yet all
shunned him, because he had loved, and honored his love with a
religious rite, instead of profaning it, like others of his race.

"Take my tongs," replied the Jew. "Dip yonder! It will be your only
Christmas gift."

"Peace to thee on earth and good-will to thee from men!" answered the
outcast.

The preacher raised the long-handled rakes, spread the handles, and
dropped them into the Sound. They gave from the bottom a dull, ringing
tingle along their shafts. He strove to lift them with their weight
of oysters, but his famished strength was insufficient.

"I am very weak and faint," he said. "Oh, help me, for the pity of
God!"

The Jew came to his relief doggedly. The Jew was a powerful,
bow-legged man, but with all his strength he could scarcely raise the
burden.

"By Abraham!" he muttered, "they are oysters of lead. They will
neither let go nor rise."

He finally rolled upon the deck a single object. It broke apart as it
fell. The moonlight, released by his humped shadow, fell upon
something sparkling, at which he leaped with a sudden thirst, and
cried:

"Gold! Jewels! They are mine."

It was an iron casket, old and rusty, that he had raised. Within it,
partly rusted to the case, the precious lustre to which he had devoted
his life flashed out to the o'erspread arch of night, sown thick with
star-dust. A furious strength was added to his body. He broke the
object from the casket and held it up to eyes of increased wonder and
awe. Then, with an oath, he would have plunged it back into the sea.

The outcast preacher interposed.

"It is your Christmas gift, Issach