BARUCH.
Nay; Rabbi Jacob's door
Swung to behind him, just as I puffed up
O'erblown with haste. See how our years weigh, cousin.
Who'd judge me with this paunch a temperate man,
A man of modest means, a man withal
Scarce overpast his prime? Well, God be praised,
If age bring no worse burden! Who is this stranger?
Simon the Leech tells me he claims to bear
Some special message from the Lord—no doubt
To-morrow, fresh from rest, he'll publish it
Within the Synagogue.
NAPHTALI.
To-morrow, man?
He will not hear of rest—he comes anon—
Shall we within?
BARUCH.
Rather let's wait,
And scrutinize him as he mounts the street.
Since you denote him so remarkable,
You've whetted my desire.
NAPHTALI.
A blind, old man,
Mayhap is all you'll find him—spent with travel,
His raiment fouled with dust, his sandaled feet
Road-bruised by stone and bramble. But his face!—
Majestic with long fall of cloud-white beard,
And hoary wreath of hair—oh, it is one
Already kissed by angels.
BARUCH.
Look, there limps
Little Manasseh, bloated as his purse,
And wrinkled as a frost-pinched fruit. I hear
His last loan to the Syndic will result
In quadrupling his wealth. Good Lord! what luck
Blesses some folk, while good men stint and sweat
And scrape, to merely fill the household larder.
What said you of this pilgrim, Naphtali?
These inequalities of fortune rub
My sense of justice so against the grain,
I lose my very name. Whence does he come?
Is he alone?
NAPHTALI.
He comes from Chinon, France.
Rabbi Cresselin he calls himself—alone
Save for his daughter who has led him hither.
A beautiful, pale girl with round black eyes.
BARUCH.
Bring they fresh tidings of the pestilence?
NAPHTALI.
I know not—but I learn from other source
It has burst forth at Erfurt.
BARUCH.
God have mercy!
Have many of our tribe been stricken?
NAPHTALI.
No.
They cleanse their homes and keep their bodies sweet,
Nor cease from prayer—and so does Jacob's God
Protect His chosen, still. Yet even His favor
Our enemies would twist into a curse.
Beholding the destroying angel smite
The foal idolater and leave unscathed
The gates of Israel—the old cry they raise—
WE have begotten the Black Death—WE poison
The well-springs of the towns.