amily
had united his people with that country. An Aboab had been chief
treasurer of the King of Castile; another had been a wonderful
physician, enjoying the intimacy of bishops and cardinals. The Jews of
Portugal and of Spain had been great personages,--the aristocracy of the
race. Scattered now over Morocco and Turkey, they shunned all
intercourse with the coarse, wretched Israelite population of Russia and
Germany. They still recited certain prayers, in the synagogue, in old
Castilian, and the Jews of London repeated them by heart without knowing
either their origin or their meaning, as if they were prayers in a
language of sacred mystery. He himself, when he prayed at the synagogue
for the King of England, imploring for him an abundance of health and
prosperity even as Jews the world over did for the ruler of whatever
country they happened to inhabit, added mentally an entreaty to the Lord
for the good fortune of beautiful Spain.

Zabulon, despite his respect for his father, interrupted him brusquely,
as if he were an imprudent child. In his eyes there glowed the harsh
expression of the impassioned zealot.

"Father, remember what they did to us. How they cast us out... how they
robbed us. Remember our brothers who were burned alive."

"That's true, that's true," groaned the patriarch, shedding new tears
into a broad handkerchief with which he wiped his eyes. "It's true....
But in that beautiful country there still remains something that is
ours. The bones of our ancestors."

When Aguirre left, the old man showered him with tokens of extreme
courtesy. He and his son were at the consul's service. And the consul
returned almost every morning to chat with the patriarch, while Zabulon
attended to the customers and counted money.

Samuel Aboab spoke of Spain with tearful delight, as of a marvelous
country whose entrance was guarded by terrible monsters with fiery
swords. Did they still recall the _judeos_ there? And despite Aguirre's
assurances, he refused to believe that they were no longer called thus
in Spain. It grieved the old man to die before beholding Espinosa de los
Monteros; a beautiful city, without a doubt. Perhaps they still
preserved there the memory of the illustrious Aboabs.

The Spaniard smilingly urged him to undertake the journey. Why did he
not go there?...

"Go! Go to Spain!..." The old man huddled together like a timorous snail
before the idea of this journey.

"There are still laws against