In one corner of the dusky place there was a little light.  A boy stood there, beside a veiled woman, and the light that seemed to cling about him was not the reflection of gold.  He was very young.  His pale face had in it all the lost beauty of the Jewish race, the lips were clearly cut, even, pure in outline and firm, the forehead broad with thought, the features noble, aquiline—­not vulture-like.  Such a face might holy Stephen, Deacon and Protomartyr, have turned upon the young men who laid their garments at the fee of the unconverted Saul.

He stood there, looking on at the scene in the market-place, not wondering, for nothing of it was new to him, not scorning, for he felt no hate, not wrathful, for he dreamed of peace.  He would have had it otherwise—­that was all.  He would have had the stream flow back upon its source and take a new channel for itself, he would have seen the strength of his people wielded in cleaner deeds for nobler aims.  The gold he hated, the race for it he despised, the poison of it he loathed, but he had neither loathing nor contempt nor hatred for the men themselves.  He looked upon them and he loved to think that the carrion vulture might once again be purified and lifted on strong wings and become, as in old days, the eagle of the mountains.

For many minutes he gazed in silence.  Then he sighed and turned away.  He held certain books in his hand, for he had come from the school of the synagogue where, throughout the short winter days, the rabbis taught him and his companions the mysteries of the sacred tongue.  The woman by his side was a servant in his father’s house, and it was her duty to attend him through the streets, until the day when, being judged a man, he should be suddenly freed from the bondage of childish things.

“Let us go,” he said in a low voice.  “The air is full of gold and heavy.  I cannot breathe it.”

“Whither?” asked the woman.

“Thou knowest,” he answered.  And suddenly the faint radiance that was always about him grew brighter, and spread out arms behind him, to the right and left, in the figure of a cross.

They walked together, side by side, quickly and often glancing behind them as though to see whether they were followed.  And yet it seemed as though it was not they who moved, but the city about them which changed.  The throng of busy Jews grew shadowy and disappeared, their shrill voices were lost in the distance.  There were other people in the street, of other features and in different garbs, of prouder bearing and hot, restless manner, broad-shouldered, erect, manly, with spur on heel and sword at side.  The outline of the old synagogue melted into the murky air and changed its shape, and stood out again in other and ever-changing forms.  Now they were passing before the walls of a noble palace, now beneath long, low galleries of arches, now again across the open space of the Great Ring in the midst of the city—­then all at once they were standing before the richly carved doorway of the Teyn Kirche, the very doorway out of which the Wanderer had followed the fleeting shadow of Beatrice’s figure but a month ago.  And then they paused, and looked again to the right and left, and searched the dark corners with piercing glances.