e a veiled woman, and the light that seemed to cling about
him was not the reflection of gold. He was very young. His pale face had
in it all the lost beauty of the Jewish race, the lips were clearly cut,
even, pure in outline and firm, the forehead broad with thought, the
features noble, aquiline--not vulture-like. Such a face might holy
Stephen, Deacon and Protomartyr, have turned upon the young men who laid
their garments at the fee of the unconverted Saul.

He stood there, looking on at the scene in the market-place, not
wondering, for nothing of it was new to him, not scorning, for he felt
no hate, not wrathful, for he dreamed of peace. He would have had it
otherwise--that was all. He would have had the stream flow back upon
its source and take a new channel for itself, he would have seen the
strength of his people wielded in cleaner deeds for nobler aims. The
gold he hated, the race for it he despised, the poison of it he
loathed, but he had neither loathing nor contempt nor hatred for the men
themselves. He looked upon them and he loved to think that the carrion
vulture might once again be purified and lifted on strong wings and
become, as in old days, the eagle of the mountains.

For many minutes he gazed in silence. Then he sighed and turned away. He
held certain books in his hand, for he had come from the school of the
synagogue where, throughout the short winter days, the rabbis taught him
and his companions the mysteries of the sacred tongue. The woman by his
side was a servant in his father's house, and it was her duty to attend
him through the streets, until the day when, being judged a man, he
should be suddenly freed from the bondage of childish things.

"Let us go," he said in a low voice. "The air is full of gold and heavy.
I cannot breathe it."

"Whither?" asked the woman.

"Thou knowest," he answered. And suddenly the faint radiance that was
always about him grew brighter, and spread out arms behind him, to the
right and left, in the figure of a cross.

They walked together, side by side, quickly and often glancing behind
them as though to see whether they were followed. And yet it seemed as
though it was not they who moved, but the city about them which changed.
The throng of busy Jews grew shadowy and disappeared, their shrill
voices were lost in the distance. There were other people in the street,
of other features and in different garbs, of prouder bearing and hot,
restless manner, broad-sh