Hephzibah, a miserable-looking old woman, with eyes disfigured and half blinded by ophthalmia, was standing in her doorway, throwing forth the refuse of vegetables, in which she dealt. Anna had frequently seen her before, and no introduction was needed.
"Where is Joab?" asked the handmaid, at the bidding of Hadassah.
The old crone through her bleared eyes peered curiously at the lady, as she replied to the maid, "Joab has gone forth, as he always goes at cockcrow, to lade his mule with leeks, and melons, and other vegetables and fruits. He will not be back till night-fall."
Hadassah pressed her burning brow in thought, and then herself addressed the old woman.
"Have you heard from Joab where dwells a week—an Athenian—Lycidas is his name?"
"Lycidas? no; there be none of that name in our quarters," was the slowly mumbled reply.
"Has Joab never spoken to you of a stranger, very goodly in person and graceful in mien?" persisted Hadassah, grasping at the hope that the singular beauty of Lycidas might make it less difficult to trace him.
Hephzibah shook her head, and showed her few remaining teeth in a grin. "Were he goodly as David, I should hear and care nothing about it," said she.
"The stranger has a very open hand, he gives freely," observed Anna.
The words had an instant effect in improving the memory of the old
Jewess.
"Ay, ay," she said, brightening up; "I mind me of a stranger who gave Joab gold when another would have given him silver. He! he! he! Our mule is as strong a beast as any in the city, but it never brought us such a day's hire before."