“It would be a farce for me,” he continued, “to ask the Museum to vote as to whether the examination of the candidate has been satisfactory. There is not one of us but would throw his cap to the moon in token of approval. Of course we adopt the hero into the Museum by a thunder of silent acclamation. We have seen something to-day to tell to the old folks at home—something to tell to our children,” he added smiling. And then with a graver face and a graver tone he went on, “And somehow I feel as if I should go away from this place a truer and worthier man for what we have seen to-day. I had heard of magnanimity before; to-day I have seen it. And I like it. Heroism is good, but heroism with righteousness is better. I see that it is possible to come down on a great deed, which is even better than rising to meet it.
“But though the Museum does not need to vote approval of Aleph the Chaldean (what a ridiculous thing it would be!), I think we owe it to ourselves to act on the suggestion of the venerable Seti; to express formally our condemnation of these villains (the one lying here where he ought to lie, and the other standing yonder dangling a whip which ought to make many a weal across his own back) and their prompters, whoever they may be. Have we any further need of the services of trainers who are themselves trained by the infernals? I think not. Those agreeing with me will stretch out their hands.”
As far as Metellus could see, every right hand was lifted.
What congratulations were showered on Aleph, how cordial and admiring both Serapeum and Museum seemed, how profuse the latter were in their disclaimers and apologies and promises to unearth the whole plot, and how modestly Aleph carried himself under it all, I will not attempt to set down in detail.
“Come with me,” said Seti to our friends, as the students broke up, “and I will show you your new quarters.” On the way they told him of their arrangement to meet Malus at the khan in the evening, but promised to return immediately after to the Serapeum. At the door of their apartments a servant met them and said to the priest that his granddaughter was in her sedan at the gate and wished to see him. Would he come at once? She was looking very pale and ill. Seti at once threw open the door, bade them enter and be at home, and hastened after the servant.
He did not appear again that day. Very likely he went home with Rachel. And very likely Aleph would have followed in the course of the afternoon, had not Cimon happened to mention that he overheard a student saying that news had just come that the emperor had asked the daughter of the Alabarch in marriage for his nephew and heir Germanicus, and that the visit of the Alabarch to Rome had reference to this overture. “Perhaps,” added Cimon, “this is what has disturbed her.”
“She would never marry a pagan,” said Aleph decidedly.
“Perhaps Germanicus is such a pagan as her grandfather,” returned Cimon. “He is said to be a very promising young man, and the son of excellent parents; and no doubt the Jewish elders will be greatly in favor of an alliance that promises to secure and advance their interests so greatly. They will remember Queen Esther.”
Aleph made no answer—unless the silent one of drawing out the knot of flowers from his girdle and setting them carefully with water in a vase which he had discovered in the room. But was this an answer? If so, it certainly was not a very clear one. Did it say No to Cimon? Did it say that his suggestions were not as weighty as they might be? Did it merely say that the rare and lovely flowers were worth preserving for a day or two on their own account—whether they came from a future empress of Rome or not? Or did the heart of the young man really speak in the act without consulting his judgment—as hearts sometimes do? I am at a loss. Such Delphic conduct is very embarrassing. Why will people put interpreters to so much trouble? If I had been Aleph I would have—but no matter what I would have done. What does the public care?