their ribs, and when the murdered man falls back into their arms call aloud for help?  So do the priests free themselves from their opponents, and, my good son, Joseph, think what my grief would be if I were to receive tidings that thou hadst been slain in the streets.  Dost think that the news would not slay me as quickly as any knife?  I ask little of thee, Joseph, the children I’ll forgo, but do thou separate thyself from these sectaries during my lifetime.  Think of me receiving the news of thy death; an old man living alone among all his riches without hope of any inheritance of his name.  But, Joseph, I can’t put away altogether the hope that the day will come when thou’lt look more favourably on a maid than now.  Thy thoughts be all for Jesus, his teaching, and his return to this world, sitting by the side of his Father in a fiery chariot, but maybe the day will come when these hopes will fade away and thy eyes will rest upon a maid.  It is strange that thou shouldst be so unlike me.  I was warmer-blooded at thy age, and when I saw thy mother——­Father, the promise is given to thee already, and my hand upon it.  I’ll not see Jesus during thy life.  If the sudden news of my death were to kill thee, I should be thy murderer.  Jesus will forgive thee these few years, Dan said.  The expression on Joseph’s face changed, and Dan wondered if Jesus were so cruel, so hard, and so self-centred that he would not grant his son a few years, if he were to ask it, so that he might stay by his father’s bedside and close his eyes and bury him.  It seemed from Joseph’s face that Jesus asked everything from his disciples, and if they did not give everything it was as if they gave nothing.

And while Dan was thus conferring with his own thoughts he heard Joseph saying that if he were to keep the promise he had just given, not to see Jesus again, he must not remain in his neighbourhood.  Yes, that is so, Joseph; go to Jerusalem.  And the old man began to babble of the transport of figs from Jericho, till Joseph could not do else than ponder on the grip of habit on a man’s heart, and ask himself if the news of his death would affect his father’s health more than the news that there was no further demand in Damascus for his salt fish.  He repented the thought as soon as it had passed through his mind, and he understood that, however much it would cost him, he must go away to Jerusalem.  He dared not risk the accusation that would for ever echo in his heart:  my father has no peace by day, nor rest at night, he is thinking always that a Zealot’s knife is in my back.  But after my father’s death—­His thoughts brought him back again to a sudden shame of himself.  I am like that, he said, and shall always be as I am.  And, not daring to think of himself any more, he jumped to his feet:  I must tell my servant that I shall start soon after daybreak.

CHAP.  XVI.