Isaak Todros searched for diligently, and gathered carefully, these precious plants of the ancient knowledge and traditions of his family. He carried them with him, and laid them on the dirty floor of his cabin in order to dry them.
On this account the air of his cabin was saturated during the summer and fall with the pungent, choking scent of drying herbs and wild flowers.
His cell was a vivid reminder of the bare cells of anchorites and hermits. Its only furniture consisted of a hard bed, a white table, standing near one of the windows, a couple of chairs, and a few planks fastened to the wall piled up with books. Among these books were twelve enormous volumes bound in parchment. They constituted the Talmud. There were also the "Ozarha-Kabod," a work written by one of Isaak's ancestors—that Todros Halevi who was the first Talmudist to believe in the Kabala; "Toldot-Adam," an epic poem, telling the history of the first man and his exile; "Sefer-Jezira," (Book of Creation), telling by pictures of the origin of the world; "Ka-arat Kezef," in which Ezobi warns the Israelites against the pernicious influence of secular science; "Schiur-Koma," a plastic description of God, instructing the reader regarding his physical appearance—the gigantic size of the head, feet, hands, and especially God's beard, which, according to the book, is ten thousand five hundred parasangs long. But the place of honour was occupied by a book showing much thumbing. It was the Book of Light—Zohar—the greatest, and, at the same time, the deepest dissertation on Hohma-Nistar (Kabala), which was published in the thirteenth century by Moses Leon, in the name of Symeon-ben-Jochai, who lived several centuries before.
Such was the library of Isaak Todros, in the reading of which he spent his nights, drawing from it all his learning and wisdom, consuming in its perusal all the forces of his body. From that library emanated an odour which intoxicated his mind with mystical emotions and the bitter, sharp venom of aversion to everything which was a stranger to, or bore ill-will to the world, shut up in those books, filled with supernatural lights and shadows. In reading them, he exhausted many hours a week—even holy days and nights. But through the holy nights there sat at his feet his pupil and favourite, Reb Moshe, the melamed, who snuffed the yellow candle, for a pious man reading Holy Books during holy nights was not permitted to snuff the candle, and he must have beside him some attentive person to perform this office.
During the holy nights the Rabbi read Schiur-Koma and Zohar, and the little man, sitting beside him, raised himself from time to time in his low chair, reviving the flame of the dying candle, and with his round eyes looking into the face of his master, waiting for the moment when his hand would arrange a word from the names of God, Notarikon and Gomatria, which would perform great miracles, and disclose to the people all the secrets of the heavens and of the earth.
Returning home after sunset one day with a big bunch of herbs, Isaak Todros found his faithful worshipper seated in a corner of the dark hall, plunged in deep thought.
"Moshe," said the Rabbi, passing swiftly and quietly through the hall.
"What is your order, Nassi?" humbly asked Moshe.
"Go at once to old Saul, and tell him that Rabbi Isaak Todros will visit his house to-morrow."
The cramped, gray figure in the dark corner jumped as though moved by a spring, and rushed across the square to the house of Saul. Passing quickly the piazza and long hall, the melamed opened the door, and, thrusting his head into the room, he exclaimed triumphantly: