s, this was all the 'news' that ever ruffled that peaceful
world. Man lived only for the Holy Law; the world had been created
merely that the Law might be studied; new lights upon its words and
letters were the only things that could matter to a sensible soul.
Time and again he had raged against the artificiality of this quietist
cosmos, accusing it of his people's paralysis, but to-night every
fibre of him yearned for this respite from the harsh reality. He
rummaged his memory for 'news'--for theological ingeniosities, textual
wire-drawings that might have escaped the lore of Milovka; and as one
who draws nigh to a great haven, he opened the door of the _Beth
Hamedrash_, and, murmuring 'Peace be to you,' dropped upon a bench
before an open folio whose commentaries and super-commentaries twined
themselves lovingly in infinite convolutions round its holy text.
Immediately he was surrounded by a buzzing crowd of youths and
ancients.

'Which Party are you of?' they clamoured eagerly.

XI

The _pogrom_ arrived. But it arrived in a new form for which even
David was unprepared. Perhaps in consequence of the Rabbi's warning to
the Governor, Self-Defence was made ridiculous. No Machiavellian
paraphernalia of _agents provocateurs_, no hooligans with false grey
beards, masquerading as Jewish rioters or blasphemers. Artillery was
calmly brought up against the Jewish quarter, as though Milovka were
an enemy's town.

As the shells began to burst over the close-packed houses, David felt
grimly that an economic Providence had saved him from wasting his time
in training pistoliers.

The white-faced landlord, wringing his hands and saying his _Vidui_
(death-bed confession), offered him and his violin-case a place in
the cellar, but he preferred to climb to the roof, from which with the
aid of a small glass, he had a clear view of the cordon drawn round
the doomed quarter. A ricocheting cannon-ball crashed through the
chimney-pots at his side, but he did not budge. His eyes were glued
upon a figure he had espied amid the cannon.

It was Ezekiel Leven, his whilom lieutenant, with whom he had dreamed
of Maccabean deeds. The new conscript, in the uniform of an
artilleryman, was carefully taking sight with a Gatling gun.

'Poor Ezekiel!' David cried. 'Yours is the most humorous fate of all!
But have you forgotten there is still one form of _Samooborona_ left?'
And with an ironic laugh he turned his pistol upon himself.

The grea