"I cannot go away," said Meir, in an equally low voice. "I have important business with the Rabbi, and shall wait till all the people have left so that I may speak with him."
"Come away," repeated Ber, and he took the youth by the shoulder.
Meir shook him off impatiently, but Ber repeated:
"Come with me now; you can return later when the people have gone—that is, if you wish it, but I do not think you will."
Both left the crowded hut. Ber walked swiftly and silently, leading his companion to a quiet part of the precincts where, under the shadow of the walls of Bet-ha-Midrash, nobody could overhear, their conversation.
Meir leaned against the wall. Ber stood silently before him, looking intently at his young kinsman.
Ber's outward appearance did not present any striking features; many would pass him without taking particular notice, yet the student of human nature would find in him a character worth knowing. He was forty years old, always carefully dressed, yet according to old customs. His delicately moulded features and blue eyes had a dreamy and apathetic expression, which only lighted up under the excitement of business speculations. A deep yearning after something, and carefully suppressed dreams and stifled aspirations gave to his mouth an expression of calm resignation. Sometimes, when the ghost of the past appeared before him, two deep furrows appeared across his forehead. It was evident that some fierce conflicts had raged under that quiet exterior, and left wounds and scars which now and then would remind him painfully of the past.
He now stood opposite the young man whom he had dragged away from the crowd almost by force.
"Meir," he said at last, "an hour ago your grandfather had a long talk with his son, Abraham. He left his visitors on purpose to speak with him, and bade me to be present at their conversation. Rest in peace, Meir; your uncle will have no hand in the vile deed which will be perpetrated."
"Will be perpetrated?" interrupted Meir passionately. "Not if I can prevent it."