“He hopes to receive it in a few days.”
“Well, well! Matters were better managed in Israel. Our vows were always terminable. And Nazarites did not shut themselves up as if other men were not to be touched, like unclean beasts. We always washed ourselves, too. There is an old monk at Norwich, that scents the street whenever he goes up it: and not with otto of roses. I turn up a side lane when I see him coming. Even the Saracens are better than that. I never knew any but Christians who thought soap and water came from Satan.” (Note 2.)
“Well, we all wash ourselves here,” said Beatrice, laughing, “unless it be Father Warner; I will not answer for him.”
“This world is a queer place, my Belasez, full of crooked lanes and crookeder men and women. Men are bad enough, I believe: but women!—”
Beatrice could guess of what woman Abraham was especially thinking.
“Is Cress come with thee, my father?”
“No—not here,” answered the old Jew, emphatically. “And he never can.”
“Why?”
“Belasez, I have a sad tale to tell thee.”
“O my father! Is there anything wrong with Cress?”