"I know them not," she ventured.
"Their acquaintance is better avoided. They have no mean—they leap from extreme to extreme. They are violent, immoderate. It is instant night and instant day; it is the maddest passion of summer always. Nature reigns at the top of her voice and chokes her realm with the fervor of her maternity. Nay, give me the north. I would feel the earth's pulse now and then without burning my fingers."
"There is room for choice in this land of thine," she mused after a little.
"Land of mine?" he repeated inquiringly, turning his head to look at her. "Is it not also thine?"
"Nay, it is not the Hebrews' and it never was," the clear answer came from the dusk behind him.
"So!" he exclaimed. "After four hundred years in Egypt they have not adopted her!"
"We have but sojourned here a night. The journey's end is farther on."
"Israel hath made a long night of the sojourn," he rejoined laughingly.
"Nay," she answered. "Thou hast not said aright. It is Egypt that hath made a long night of our sojourn."
There was a silence in which Kenkenes felt accused and uncomfortable. It would require little to make harsh the temper of the talk. It lay with him, one of the race of offenders, to make amends.