"How can I sleep?" the faded woman whispered to him, "when I feel so miserable! Hajka is sick and at any moment she may cry, and if she would cry Jankiel would waken and be very angry!"
"Sleep mother," whispered back the young man. "I will sit here and rock Hajka."
The yellow, wrinkled face, with the big red rose over the forehead, bent and rested—not on the high dirty pillows—but on the lap of the sitting youth.
Eliezer put his elbow on the edge of the cradle, leaned his forehead on the palm of his hand and sat in thought. From time to time he moved the cradle with his foot, and hummed.
"Oj! My head, my poor head!" whispered in her sleep the yellow-faced woman, slumbering with her head in her son's lap.
"Oh, Israel! how poor thou art!" thoughtfully whispered the red lips of the young man watching by the cradle.
While this was passing in Reb Jankiel's house, a small, lively human figure rushed through the darkness, across the large school-yard toward the small house of Rabbi Todros, where it disappeared behind a small door.
The creaking of the door was answered from the interior of the house by a low, but pure voice:
"Is that you, Moshe?"
"I, Nassi! your faithful servant! the miserable footstool of your feet! May the angel of peace visit your sleep! May every breath of your nostrils be agreeable to you, as the sweet oil mixed with myrrh! And while you sleep, may your soul bathe with great delight in the streams of the spirits!"