egacy of his fathers. The families had
arranged the union without even consulting them, when she was twelve
years old and he already a man corrupted by frequent changes of
residence and traveling adventures. Luna had been waiting already ten
years for the return of her fiance from Buenos Aires, without the
slightest impatience, like the other maidens of her race, certain that
everything would take its regular course at the appointed hour.

"These Jewish girls," said a friend of Aguirre, "are never in a hurry.
They're accustomed to biding their time. Just see how their fathers have
been awaiting the Messiah for thousands of years without growing tired."

One morning, when the Feast of Tabernacles had ended and the Jewish
population of the town returned to its normal pursuits, Aguirre entered
the establishment of the Aboabs under the pretext of changing a quantity
of money into tender of English denomination. It was a rectangular room
without any other light than that which came in through the doorway, its
walls kalsomined and with a wainscoting of white, glazed tiles. A small
counter divided the shop, leaving a space for the public near the
entrance and reserving the rest of the place for the owners and a large
iron safe. Near the door a wooden charity-box, inscribed in Hebrew,
awaited the donations of the faithful for the philanthropic activities
of the community. The Jewish customers, in their dealings with the
house, deposited there the extra _centimos_ of their transactions.
Behind the counter were the Aboabs, father and son. The patriarch,
Samuel Aboab, was very aged and of a greasy corpulence. As he sat there
in his armchair his stomach, hard and soft at the same time, had risen
to his chest. His shaven upper lip was somewhat sunken through lack of
teeth; his patriarchal beard, silver white and somewhat yellow at the
roots, fell in matted locks, with the majesty of the prophets. Old age
imparted to his voice a whimpering quaver, and to his eyes a tearful
tenderness. The least emotion brought tears; every word seemed to stir
touching recollections. Tears and tears oozed from his eyes, even when
he was silent, as if they were fountains whence escaped the grief of an
entire people, persecuted and cursed through centuries upon centuries.

His son Zabulon was already old, but a certain black aspect lingered
about him, imparting an appearance of virile youth. His eyes were dark,
sweet and humble, but with an occasional