tude of fear and supplication, now lifted
towards the crucifix his imploring hands.

"Oh, Messiah!" cried the Jew, "the avenging arm of heaven brings me back
to the foot of this heavy cross, which thou didst bear, when, stopping at
the door of my poor dwelling, thou wert repulsed with merciless
harshness, and I said unto thee: 'Go on! go on!'--After my long life of
wanderings, I am again before this cross, and my hair begins to whiten.
Oh Lord! in thy divine mercy, hast thou at length pardoned me? Have I
reached the term of my endless march? Will thy celestial clemency grant
me at length the repose of the sepulchre, which, until now, alas! has
ever fled before me?--Oh! if thy mercy should descend upon me, let it
fall likewise upon that woman, whose woes are equal to mine own! Protect
also the last descendants of my race! What will be their fate? Already,
Lord, one of them--the only one that misfortune had perverted--has
perished from the face of the earth. Is it for this that my hair grows
gray? Will my crime only be expiated when there no longer remains in this
world one member of our accursed race? Or does this proof of thy powerful
goodness, Lord, which restores me to the condition of humanity, serve
also as a sign of the pardon and happiness of my family? Will they at
length triumph over the perils which beset them? Will they, accomplishing
the good which their ancestor designed for his fellow creatures, merit
forgiveness both for themselves and me? Or will they, inexorably
condemned as the accursed scions of an accursed stock, expiate the
original stain of my detested crime?

"Oh, tell me--tell me, gracious Lord! shall I be forgiven with them, or
will they be punished with me?"

The twilight gave place to a dark and stormy night, yet the Jew continued
to pray, kneeling at the foot of the cross.

CHAPTER LII.

THE COUNCIL.

The following scene took place at Saint-Dizier House, two days after the
reconciliation of Marshal Simon with his daughters. The princess is
listening with the most profound attention to the words of Rodin. The
reverend father, according to his habit, stands leaning against the
mantelpiece, with his hands thrust into the pockets of his old brown
great-coat. His thick, dirty shoes have left their mark on the ermine
hearth-rug. A deep sense of satisfaction is impressed on the Jesuit's
cadaverous countenance. Princess de Saint-Dizier, dressed with that sort
of modest elegance which beco