“Ah!” responded the unconscious Countess, “it is often hard, and everybody does not like it, I know.”
Belasez was silent beyond a slight reverence to show that she heard the observation.
“But hast thou had enough?” pursued the Countess, still unsatisfied.
“I am greatly obliged to my Lady, and quite ready to serve her,” was the evasive reply.
The Countess looked hard at Belasez, but she said no more. She despatched Levina for the scarf which was to be copied, and gave the young Jewess her instructions. The exquisite work which grew in Belasez’s skilful hands evidently delighted the Countess. She was extremely kind, and the reserved but sensitive nature of Belasez went out towards her in fervent love.
To Margaret, the Jewish broideress was an object of equal mystery and interest. She would sit watching her work for long periods. She noticed that Belasez ignored the existence of her private oratory, made no reverence to the gilded Virgin which stood on a bracket in her wardrobe, and passed the bénitier without vouchsafing the least attention to the holy water. Manifestly, Jews did not believe in gilded images and holy water. But then, in what did they believe? Had they any faith in any thing? Belasez had owned to saying her prayers, and she acknowledged the existence of some law which she felt herself bound to obey. But whose law was it?—and to whom did she pray? These thoughts seethed in Margaret’s brain till at last, one afternoon when she sat watching the embroidery, they burst forth into speech, “Belasez!”
“What would my damsel?”
“Belasez, what dost thou believe?”
The Jewess looked up in surprise.
“I am not sure that I understand my damsel’s question. Will she condescend to explain?”