The two young men opened their eyes. "Well!" they exclaimed, "then the melamed did not tell the truth!"
Eliezer was silent for a long time again. It was evident that he preferred not to answer, but the young impatient hands pulled him by the sleeve, asking for a reply.
"He did not tell the truth," he finally exclaimed timidly.
At that moment Meir put his hand on his shoulder. "Eliezer," said he, "you gave me the same answer two years ago, when you came back from the great city where you studied singing. Then you opened my eyes, which alone began to search for the truth, and you taught me that we are not true Israelites; that our faith was not the same that was given to us on Mount Sinai; that Judaism has grown muddy like water when a handful of earth is thrown into it—and that mud has blackened our heads and our hearts. Eliezer, you have told me this, and I have seen the light. Since that time I have loved you as a brother who helped me out of obscurity, but Since that time, I feel in my heart a great oppression and a great loneliness."
"Meir, Eliezer taught you, and Eliezer is silent—you, his pupil, commence to talk," said her, whose lazy words were tinged with irony.
"I wish I knew how to talk," exclaimed the young man, with sparkling eyes, "and what to do!"
And after a while he added, more softly:
"But I know neither how to speak nor how to act—only in my heart I bear a great hatred toward those who deceive us, and a great love toward those who are deceived."
"And a great audacity," drawled Ber, negligently stretched on the bed.
"Until now I have not had the audacity, but—but if I knew what to do, I would have it."