And—as you have no doubt already opined—hardly had Miriam opened the door when, with pale face, but with lips that were pressed in grim determination, in walked Lazarus. Now, to this day I do not know whether Miriam expected him, or what her feelings were when he entered. She has refused to tell me. It needed but one glance to assure me that if there was any secret Rosnofsky had not been in it.
With a cry of rage he sprang to his feet, and I feared that he would hurl a knife at the intruder. But an instant later he recovered himself, and with a gurgling, choking sound sank into his chair.
“The grace of God be with you all,” saluted Lazarus, still very pale. Then,
“Am I a welcome guest?”
Rosnofsky seemed to be on the point of exploding with rage, but at this question he started as if he had been struck. After a moment’s silence he arose with great dignity—and holding out his hand—the strength of his piety never more forcibly illustrated—said:
“Forgive my anger, my son. You are welcome to the Feast of the Passover.”
And resuming his seat he chanted:
“Blessed art Thou, O Eternal, our God, King of the Universe, Creator of the fruit of wine!”
It was the beginning of the service. Lazarus, with his eyes upon the table, chanted the responses, and I, who knew nothing of the ritual, looked at Miriam, who, I assure you, was delightful to behold, particularly when her eyes twinkled as they did now.
By the time he had finished the Sader, Rosnofsky’s troubled spirit had become soothed, and the final grace was delivered in a voice so calm and with a manner so soothing, that when he looked up Lazarus was emboldened to speak.