The question was asked by several voices, dominated by the sharp, whining voice of the melamed.
On the bashful young man's face there appeared an expression of angry and sullen irritation.
"I did not visit them," he answered, more loudly than before, "but I defended them from an attack."
"From an attack? What attack? Who attacked them?" asked the melamed mockingly.
This time Meir raised his eyelids and his shining eyes looked sharply into the eyes of his questioner.
"Reb Moshe," he exclaimed, "you know who attacked them. They were your pupils—they do the same every Friday. And why should they not do it, knowing—"
He stopped and again dropped his eyes. Fear and anger were fighting within him.
"Nu, what do they know? Meir, why did you not finish? What do they know?" laughed Reb Moshe.
"They know that you, Reb Moshe, will praise them for so doing."
The melamed rose from his chair, his shining eyes opened widely. He stretched out his dark, thin hand, as though to-say something, but the strong and already sonorous voice of the young man did not permit to do it.