Synagogue of the Piazza of the Temple, half-way from
the river; a scene more impressive in its sombreness than all the
splendor of the church pageant.

The synagogue was a hidden building, indistinguishable externally from
the neighboring houses; within, gold and silver glistened in the
pomegranates and bells of the Scrolls of the Law or in the broidery of
the curtain that covered the Ark; the glass of one of the windows,
blazing with a dozen colors for the Twelve Tribes, represented the
Urim and the Thummim. In the courtyard stood a model of the ancient
Temple of Jerusalem, furnished with marvellous detail, memorial of
lost glories.

The Council of Sixty had spoken. Joseph ben Manasseh was to suffer the
last extremity of the Jewish law. All Israel was called together to
the Temple. An awful air of dread hung over the assemblage; in a
silence as of the grave each man upheld a black torch that flared
weirdly in the shadows of the synagogue. A ram's horn sounded shrill
and terrible, and to its elemental music the anathema was launched,
the appalling curse withdrawing every human right from the outlaw,
living or dead, and the congregants, extinguishing their torches,
cried, "Amen." And in a spiritual darkness as black, Manasseh tottered
home to sit with his wife on the floor and bewail the death of their
Joseph, while a death-light glimmering faintly swam on a bowl of oil,
and the prayers for the repose of the soul of the deceased rose
passionately on the tainted Ghetto air. And Miriam, her Madonna-like
face wet with hot tears, burnt the praying-shawl she was weaving in
secret love for the man who might one day have loved her, and went to
condole with the mourners, holding Rachel's rugged hand in those soft,
sweet fingers that no lover would ever clasp.

But Rachel wept for her child, and would not be comforted.

IV

Helena de' Franchi gave the news of the ban to Giuseppe de' Franchi.
She had learned it from one of her damsels, who had had it from
Shloumi the Droll, a graceless, humorous rogue, steering betwixt Jews
and Christians his shifty way to profit.

Giuseppe smiled a sweet smile that hovered on the brink of tears.
"They know not what they do," he said.

"Thy parents mourn thee as dead."

"They mourn the dead Jew; the living Christian's love shall comfort
them."

"But thou mayst not approach them, nor they thee."

"By faith are mountains moved; my spirit embraces theirs. We shall yet
rejoice togethe