“Where is it?” responded Abraham, desolately. “But, Licorice,—our daughter?”
“What dost thou mean?” said Licorice, fiercely. “Perhaps we might shed tears first. But they must not pollute the sacrifice. Do not the holy Rabbins say that a tear dropped upon a devoted lamb washeth out all the merit of the offering?”
“I believe they do,” said Abraham; “though it is not in the Thorah. But I did not mean exactly that. Dost thou not understand me?”
“I understand that thou art no true son of Abraham!” burst out his wife. “I say she is, and she shall be!”
“Who ever heard of such reckoning in the days of the fathers?” answered Abraham. “Licorice, I am doubtful if we have done well in keeping back the truth so much. Doth not the Holy One love and require truth in all His people? Yet it was thy doing, not mine.”
“Oh yes, thou wouldst have told her at once!” sneered Licorice. “She would stay with us meekly then, would she not? Go to sleep, for mercy’s sake, I entreat thee, and hold thy tongue, before any worse mischief be done. My doing! yes, it is well it was. Had I listened to thee, that girl would have been worshipping idols at this moment.”
“‘Blessed is the man that trusteth in Adonai,’” softly said Abraham. “He could have helped it, I suppose.”
“Ay, and happy is that woman that hath a wise man to her husband!” responded Licorice, irreverently. “Go to sleep, for the sake of Jael the wife of Heber the Kenite, or I shall get up and chop thy head off, for thou art not a whit better than Sisera!”
Perhaps Abraham thought it the wisest plan to obey his incensed spouse, for no word of response reached Belasez.
That damsel lay awake for a considerable time. She soon made up her mind to get as much as she could out of her cousin Genta. It was evident that a catechising ordeal awaited her, to the end of discovering a supposed Christian lover; but feeling her conscience quite clear on that count, Belasez was only disturbed at the possible revelation of her change of faith. She could, however, honestly satisfy Abraham that she had not received baptism. But two points puzzled and deeply interested her. How much had she better say about Bruno?—and, what was this mysterious point which they were afraid she might guess—which seemed to have some unaccountable reference to herself? If Anegay were her sister, as she could no longer doubt, why should her conduct in some way reflect upon Belasez? Suppose Anegay had married a Christian—as she thought most likely from the allusions, and which she knew would be in her parents’ eyes disgrace of the deepest dye—or even if Anegay had herself become a Christian, which was a shade worse still,—yet what had that to do with Belasez, and why should it make her so anxious to go back to the Christians?