"But it was not so in the days of our fathers," her companion reminded her. "Then there was plenty and each man sat under his own vine and fig tree, for by the law of Moses no man was allowed to collect usury, so sayeth the Rabbi."
Hardly had the meal begun when, unnoticed by either of the women, a fisherman entered. His muscular arms were uncovered; the short skirt of his garment scarce reached his knees. His heavy dark hair was pushed back from his forehead and the dying sunset falling over his swarthy face and neck gave him the appearance of bronze. He stopped behind Sara and spoke her name.
"It is the voice of Jael," she cried, looking back. "My Jael."
"And he hath brought a fish!" Grandmother Rachael exclaimed, laughing. "The blessing of God on thee, my son Jael. Sit thee down and sup with us."
"Thy hospitality exceedeth thy stores," he answered, "yet could I not swallow food if thy table did groan with milk and honey."
"Thou art not sick?" Sara asked, concern in her voice.
"Nay, and yet have I a fever, the consuming fever of wrath, for again hath the tax-gatherer been abroad. Robbed are our tables of fat, milk and honey; lean are our bellies for food; stripped are our bodies of covering. Yet doth the tax ever increase that Herod may add to his vast stores. It is tax—tax—tax until at night the waves of the sea beat against the shore calling 'Tax—tax,' and in the solitary places the wild dogs bark 'Tax—tax,' and in the homes of the peasant the children cry for bread while over their roofs the wind calls 'Tax—tax.'"
"It was not so in the days of our fathers," Grandmother Rachael muttered, beating her palms slowly together.
"Her heart is not without Israel's hope of the coming of the King even though her lips make much muttering," Sara said, as Jael turned to the aged woman who again wailed:
"It was not so in the days of our fathers."