to give up
the writing; and she screamed that she would not, and the goat in the
entrance ran about and bleated."

Meir trembled in all his limbs.

"And then what happened?"

"Morejne, she took the spindle into her hands and stood before her
zeide. I saw it from the bush. She was so white, and the spindle was
white, and the people were black, and the goat kept on running
amongst them and bleating."

"And then--and then?"

"Then, Morejne, I did not look any longer, but cowered down in fear,
because there was such a noise in the hut--such moans. Then the
people went away, and carried her, and carried her grandfather, and
the goat ran up the hill bleating, and I do not know where it has
gone."

Meir straightened himself, and looked up to the sky with stony eyes.
He knew everything now.

"Where did they carry them?" he asked in a dull whisper.

"There."

The outstretched arm of the child pointed in the direction where, in
the gray mist, the meadow was dimly visible--and the pond. Beyond the
pond were marshes and bogs, where two lifeless bodies would easily
sink. There, beyond the meadows, where in spring she had gathered
yellow lilies among the rushes, and unconsciously betrayed her fresh
and innocent love--there, hidden from all human eyes, she was lying
at the feet of her grandfather, wrapped in the wealth of her black
hair.

A threefold cry of Jehovah rang out in the still morning air, and
only Lejbele remained before the door, holding in his raised hand the
scroll of paper.

Meir had gone into the hut.

What a terrible story was revealed to him! The straw lying about
Abel's couch, and amongst it, like drops of blood, Golda's red
corals. The broken spindle and the old Bible torn in shreds told
their tale. It was a long and cruel tale to which the young man
listened, his head pressed against the wall--a tale so long that
hours passed over his head, and he still listened with beating heart
and trembling limbs.

When he stood again on the threshold, the sun was shining brightly.
How terribly changed he looked. The forehead, marked with a red scar,
was seamed and corrugated as if long years of suffering bad ploughed
the once smooth surface. The half-shut eyes had a dull despairing
lustre, and his arms hung down limp and powerless. He stood thus a
few minutes, as if listening intently for the sound of the voice he
should never hear more, when a weak hand tugged at his clothes, and a
small voice said: