iled him who begot you. Away, or we stone you!"

Ammiel did not answer or move.

The twisted smile passed over his bowed face again as he waited to know
the shepherds' will with him, even as he had waited for the robbers.
But Zadok lifted his hand.

"Not so hasty, Shama-ben-Elkanah. You also break the law by judging a
man unheard. The rabbis have told us that there is a tradition of the
elders-a rule as holy as the law itself-that a man may deny his father
in a certain way without sin. It is a strange rule, and it must be very
holy or it would not be so strange. But this is the teaching of the
elders: a son may say of anything for which his father asks him-a
sheep, or a measure of corn, or a field, or a purse of silver-'it is
Corban, a gift that I have vowed unto the Lord;' and so his father
shall have no more claim upon him. Have you said 'Corban' to your
father, Ammiel-ben-Jochanan? Have you made a vow unto the Lord?"

"I have said 'Corban,'" answered Ammiel, lifting his face, still
shadowed by that strange smile, "but it was not the Lord who heard my
vow."

"Tell us what you have done," said the old man sternly, "for we will
neither judge you, nor shelter you, unless we hear your story."

"There is nothing in it," replied Ammiel indifferently. "It is an old
story. But if you are curious you shall hear it. Afterward you shall
deal with me as you will."

So the shepherds, wrapped in their warm cloaks, sat listening with
grave faces and watchful, unsearchable eyes, while Ammiel in his
tattered silk sat by the sinking fire of thorns and told his tale with
a voice that had no room for hope or fear-a cool, dead voice that spoke
only of things ended.

II.

NIGHTFIRE

"In my father's house I was the second son. My brother was honored and
trusted in all things. He was a prudent man and profitable to the
household. All that he counselled was done, all that he wished he had.
My place was a narrow one. There was neither honor nor joy in it, for
it was filled with daily tasks and rebukes. No one cared for me. My
mother sometimes wept when I was rebuked. Perhaps she was disappointed
in me. But she had no power to make things better. I felt that I was a
beast of burden, fed only in order that I might be useful; and the dull
life irked me like an ill-fitting harness. There was nothing in it.

"I went to my father and claimed my share of the inheritance. He was
rich. He gave it to me. It did not impoverish him a