The minister's face darkened. "Rather the American troops are leaving it, I fear," he answered gravely. "Mr. Levy who came by early this morning told me that four British ships have already passed up North River, and that there are about the same number anchored in Turtle Bay. They may make a landing at any time—and if they do——" he smiled somewhat grimly, "well, I fear, my lad, that we will be living in a British province."
But David had heard too much from his cousins in Philadelphia of the glorious doings of a few months before, the Declaration of Independence signed in July, the ringing of the great Liberty Bell. And he answered as sturdily as any other boy of 1776 might have done: "No, sir. The British may take the city, but no true-born American will submit to their rule."
Rabbi Seixas smiled a little at his fire. "But what will you do, David? They are already at our gates. From what I have heard not even General Washington, lying across the river with his troops, can stay the British now. General Howe will hold a tight rein over the city and we must learn to bow our shoulders to the yoke."
David stiffened his small shoulders stubbornly as though he actually stood before the hated English officer. "The good people of Boston," he began, proudly, "were not afraid of the redcoats—" then stopped, for his older companion did not have to remind him of the fate of the Boston citizens shot down on the public common by the soldiers of King George.
"Ah, little David," said the minister, sadly, reading his thoughts, "we will be just as powerless before our foe as our ancestors were before the Philistines."
A merry twinkle sparkled in David's eyes; he was a bright little fellow and he had not studied Hebrew and Jewish history all the long winter with the Rev. Mr. Seixas without learning a few lessons very helpful in time of need. "Didn't David and his sling frighten the whole Philistine army away?" he asked, mischievously.
The minister did not smile. "But the Lord was on David's side," he answered, gravely. "Today he seems to have deserted His People."
Down the street came a man whose white hairs might have marked him as aged had not his bright eyes and resolute bearing spoken of undying youth. He paused a moment at the gate, bowing to the Rabbi with all the formal courtliness of his day.
"Good Shabbas, Mr. Gomez," said the minister. "You are on your way to the synagogue?"
"Yes. Perhaps it may be the last service we will have in Shearith Israel before the cursed British guns blow our roof about our ears," answered the older man. "Alas, Mr. Seixas, when you were elected our Rabbi but a year ago, I predicted a long and fruitful term of service for you in our midst. But now—" a hopeless shrug completed the sentence.