fted his hand.

"Not so hasty, Shama-ben-Elkanah. You also break the law by judging a
man unheard. The rabbis have told us that there is a tradition of the
elders--a rule as holy as the law itself--that a man may deny his
father in a certain way without sin. It is a strange rule, and it must
be very holy or it would not be so strange. But this is the teaching
of the elders: a son may say of anything for which his father asks
him--a sheep, or a measure of corn, or a field, or a purse of
silver--'it is Corban, a gift that I have vowed unto the Lord'; and so
his father shall have no more claim upon him. Have you said 'Corban'
to your father, Ammiel-ben-Jochanan? Have you made a vow unto the
Lord?"

"I have said 'Corban,'" answered Ammiel, lifting his face, still
shadowed by that strange smile, "but it was not the Lord who heard my
vow."

"Tell us what you have done," said the old man sternly, "for we will
neither judge you, nor shelter you, unless we hear your story."

"There is nothing in it," replied Ammiel indifferently. "It is an old
story. But if you are curious you shall hear it. Afterward you shall
deal with me as you will."

So the shepherds, wrapped in their warm cloaks, sat listening with
grave faces and watchful, unsearchable eyes, while Ammiel in his
tattered silk sat by the sinking fire of thorns and told his tale with
a voice that had no room for hope or fear--a cool, dead voice that
spoke only of things ended.

II

NIGHTFIRE

"In my father's house I was the second son. My brother was honoured
and trusted in all things. He was a prudent man and profitable to the
house-hold. All that he counselled was done, all that he wished he
had. My place was a narrow one. There was neither honour nor joy in
it, for it was filled with daily tasks and rebukes. No one cared for
me. My mother sometimes wept when I was rebuked. Perhaps she was
disappointed in me. But she had no power to make things better. I felt
that I was a beast of burden, fed only in order that I might be
useful; and the dull life irked me like an ill-fitting harness. There
was nothing in it.

"I went to my father and claimed my share of the inheritance. He was
rich. He gave it to me. It did not impoverish him and it made me free.
I said to him 'Corban,' and shook the dust of Bethsaida from my feet.

"I went out to look for mirth and love and joy and all that is
pleasant to the eyes and sweet to the taste. If a god made me,
thought I, he m