Patches of wild white cloud were scudding across the pallid purple sky beneath the stars, and there was a silver causeway across the purple sea.  The purple was not unlike that of an amethyst.  The cliffs sloped back to the town; the boats and peaked roofs and church tower were seen by the sharp outline of their masses of light and shade.  The street lamps were not lit in the town because of the moon, and only in two or three places there was the warm glow of a casement fringed with the rays of a midnight candle.  To the left of the cliffs, close to the town, were the trees of the squire’s park and the roof of the Hall.  Perhaps it was because the curate was looking at these things, as he walked among the graves, that he did not look at the monument towards which he was making way, until he came within half a dozen yards of it; then he suddenly saw that there was another man leaning against it, half hid in the shadow.  He stopped at once and stood looking.

The man had thrown his arms backward over the arms of the cross, and was leaning, half hanging, upon it; the young priest was inexpressibly shocked and startled by the attitude.  He knew that none of the humbler inhabitants of the town would venture near such a place at such a time, nor could he think of any one else who was likely to be there.  Besides, although he could not see the stranger distinctly, he himself was standing in full moonlight, and yet the man in the shadow of the cross made no sign of seeing him.  At that moment he would gladly have gone home without asking further question, but that would have looked as if he were afraid.

He tried a chance remark.  ‘It is a fine night,’ he said, as lightly as might be.

‘Yes,’ said the other, and moved his arms from the arms of the cross.  It was only one word, but the curate recognised the soft voice at once.  It was the Jewish rabbi.

‘I was at one of your services the other day,’ he said, advancing nearer.

‘Yes.’

‘I felt sorry your people did not turn out better.’

There was no answer.

‘It is a very cold wind,’ said the curate.  ’I hardly know why I came out so far.’

‘Shall I tell you?’ asked the Jew softly.  He spoke good English, but very slowly, and with some foreign accent.

‘Certainly, if you can.’

‘I desired very much to see you.’

’But you did not tell me, so that could not be the reason.  Your will could not influence my mind.  I assure you I came of my own free will; it would be terrible if one man should be at the mercy of another’s caprice.’

’Be it so; let us call it chance then.  I desired that you should come, and you came.’

‘But you do not think that you have a power over other men like that?’

’I do not know; I find that with some men such correspondence between my will and their thoughts and actions is not rare; but I could not prove that it is not chance.  It makes no difference to me whether it be chance or not.  I have been thinking of you very much, desiring your aid, and twice you have come to me—­as you say—­of your own free will.’