He swiftly crossed the mist-covered fields to get away, and say farewell to her who had promised to be a faithful Rachel to him, and to claim from her his treasure.
The door and window of the little hut stood wide open.
"Golda!" he called softly, "Golda!"
There was no answer.
He repeated his call, but the silence remained unbroken. He drew nearer, and looked at the spot where old Abel was wont to sit. It was empty.
A strange, undefined dread took hold of him.
He looked around, up the hills and along the fields, and called in a loud voice:
"Golda!"
There was a slight rustle not far off. It came from a wild rosebush, from among the branches of which rose the sleepy figure of little Lejbele.
Meir went quickly up to him. The child disengaged himself from the branches, and put his hand under his coat.
"Where is Golda?" asked Meir.
Lejbele did not answer, but handed him the roll of papers.
Meir bent towards the child.
"Who gave you that?"
"She," answered Lejbele, pointing to the hut.
"When did she give it to you?"
The child answered:
"When the people were coming she rushed out of the hut, woke me, and put the roll under my coat, and said, 'Give it to Meir when he comes.'"
Meir began to tremble.
"And afterwards?" he asked, "afterwards?"
"Afterwards, Morejne, she hid me in the bush, and went back to the hut."
"How many people were there?"
"Two, Morejne, three--ten--I don't know."
"And what did they do? What did the people do?"
"The people came, Morejne, and shouted and screamed at her to give up the writing; and she screamed that she would not, and the goat in the entrance ran about and bleated."
Meir trembled in all his limbs.
"And then what happened?"
"Morejne, she took the spindle into her hands and stood before her zeide. I saw it from the bush. She was so white, and the spindle was white, and the people were black, and the goat kept on running amongst them and bleating."
"And then--and then?"
"Then, Morejne, I did not look any longer, but cowered down in fear, because there was such a noise in the hut--such moans. Then the people went away, and carried her, and carried her grandfather, and the goat ran up the hill bleating, and I do not know where it has gone."
Meir straightened himself, and looked up to the sky with stony eyes.
He knew everything now.
"Where did they carry them?" he asked in a dull whisper.
"There."
The outstretched arm of the child pointed in the direction where, in the gray mist, the meadow was dimly visible--and the pond. Beyond the pond were marshes and bogs, where two lifeless bodies would easily sink. There, beyond the meadows, where in spring she had gathered yellow lilies among the rushes, and unconsciously betrayed her fresh and innocent love--there, hidden from all human eyes, she was lying at the feet of her grandfather, wrapped in the wealth of her black hair.
A threefold cry of Jehovah rang out in the still morning air, and only Lejbele remained before the door, holding in his raised hand the scroll of paper.
Meir had gone into the hut.
What a terrible story was revealed to him! The straw lying about Abel's couch, and amongst it, like drops of blood, Golda's red corals. The broken spindle and the old Bible torn in shreds told their tale. It was a long and cruel tale to which the young man listened, his head pressed against the wall--a tale so long that hours passed over his head, and he still listened with beating heart and trembling limbs.
When he stood again on the threshold, the sun was shining brightly.
How terribly changed he looked. The forehead, marked with a red scar, was seamed and corrugated as if long years of suffering bad ploughed the once smooth surface. The half-shut eyes had a dull despairing lustre, and his arms hung down limp and powerless. He stood thus a few minutes, as if listening intently for the sound of the voice he should never hear more, when a weak hand tugged at his clothes, and a small voice said:
"Morejne."
Lejbele stood before him, his mournful eyes raised to his, and stretched out a roll of paper. It seemed as if the sight of the papers reminded Meir of something, roused him from sleep, and told him to do something that was sacred and important. He passed both hands over his forehead, and then took the Senior's legacy from the child's hands, and at the touch of it he raised his head, and his eyes seemed to regain their old power and courage. He looked at the town waking up from sleep, and murmured something in a low voice--something about Israel, its greatness in the past, and its great sins, and that he would never desert it, and not give back curses for curses; that he would carry the covenant of peace to other nations, drink at the source of wisdom, and come back sometime-sometime, he repeated, thinking of the far future; and with a last look embracing the poor little hut, as if in farewell to his short and pure dream of love, he slowly ascended the hill.
The child, standing motionless near the door, looked after the retreating figure of the young man. His wide open eyes became suffused with tears. When Meir was about half-way up the hill, one convulsive sob burst from the child, and he began to run. At first he moved very fast, but finding they were about a dozen steps apart, he slackened his speed, and tucking his hands under his sleeves, walked slowly and gravely after him.
Thus walking, one after the other, the excommunicated youth and the child of the poor man, they disappeared beyond the hill, where they beheld a broad, sandy road leading into the wide, unknown world.
Has the humiliated, excommunicated, and despised youth reached the aim after which he strove so ardently? Has he found in the world people ready to open their hearts and doors, and help him on the road to learning?
Has he, or will he come back, and bring with him forgiveness, and that light, by the power of which the soil on which now grows nought but thorns--will it produce cedars of Lebanon? I do not know.
The story is too recent to have its end yet--for stories like this have no end. But as it is similar to many of the same kind of stories, reader! of whatever race, or country, or religion, if you meet this obscure apostle on your way, give him cordially and quickly your brotherly hand in friendship and help.
THE END.