IV.
THE SYNAGOGUE.

If the reader is curious to know how the two friends passed the long Sabbath morning, before it was time to go to the synagogue, I can inform him. They prayed apart, they prayed together; they produced a copy of the Septuagint and read what the prophets had written about the Messiah. They found many mysteries, and much material for conversation, until the dial in the centre of the court told them that it was time to be moving.

On their way up Emporium Street they kept to the right side for two reasons—because the right was first reached, and because on that side the current of people was in their own direction. And a strong current it was. Men, women, and children, with Jewish faces and apparently dressed in their best, in great numbers were leisurely moving northward. Aleph was tall enough to look over the heads of most of the people before him and noticed in the distance the living stream turning into a building. It occurred to him that this building was probably the synagogue of Malus, of which the Alabarch had spoken. He was confirmed in this idea by the light behavior of most about him. The principle of reverence was neither in their feet nor in their faces. And as to their tongues—these seemed to have the freedom of all the days of the week. They were talking shop, talking ships, talking fashions, talking gossip—talking everything but politics and religion. These last topics they prudently left to the Romans and “whom it might concern.”

When they came to the synagogue they saw that it was large; though by no means as large and imposing as the Diapleuston. They lingered a little among the many standing on the street in order to get a better view. Just then came up a group of persons more richly dressed than the rest, and for whom the rest made way with special deference as they mounted the steps. One of these, whose dress was particularly showy, turned when he had reached the last platform, and looked down among the people as if seeking some one. His eye rested on Aleph. Both Cimon and Aleph noticed an involuntary start. It could hardly have been greater if the man had received an unexpected blow.

He was a man of middle stature, somewhat past middle life, and more than middlingly obese. His face was a curiosity. It was as round as a full moon, and as pocked: but the great peculiarity of it was its characterless or wooden expression. It neither laughed nor cried, it neither promised nor threatened, it was neither happy nor miserable, it was neither saint nor sinner. Yet one hesitates a little over this last statement. There was a certain thin, very thin, something about the face that asked to be considered religious. But to the eyes of our friends it seemed sanctimoniousness instead of sanctity, a gauze white veil which, however well worn, is no part of the person and can be put off at pleasure. Perhaps they were mistaken. Sudden judgments sometimes shoot wide of the mark. And it was but a moment they had in which to study his face before he disappeared within the synagogue.

Cimon turned to a by-stander, and asked: “The ruler of the synagogue?” The man bowed assent.

“I wonder,” said Cimon, musingly, as they passed on, “whether Malus recognized your father in you. You resemble him strongly—as he was, thirty years ago.”