The guests who had surrounded the arm-chair now retreated in confusion; and the lady of the house again screamed in the old man's ear, "Bernhard is traveling, but your daughter Rosalie is here."
"Traveling?" mournfully inquired the old man. "How can he be traveling? I wanted to buy him a horse, that he might ride it; I wanted to buy him an estate, that he might live on it, like a respectable man, as he always was. I know," he cried, "when I last saw him, he was in bed. He lay on a bed, and he raised his clenched hand, and shook it at his father."
"Come here, Rosalie," cried her mother, distressed at these reminiscences. "When your father sees you, my child, he will have other thoughts."
Rosalie approached, and, spreading out her handkerchief, knelt down before the arm-chair. "Do you know me, father?" she cried.
"I know you," said the old man. "You are a woman. Why should a woman lie on the earth? Give me my praying-cloak, and speak the prayer. I will kneel in your place, for a long night has come upon us. When it is past, we will kindle the lights, and will eat. It will be time to put on gay garments then. Why do you wear gay garments now, when the Lord is wroth with the congregation?" He began to murmur a prayer, and again collapsed.
Rosalie rose impatiently; and her mother said, in much embarrassment, "He is worse to-day than he has ever been. I wished your father to be present at his daughter's betrothal, but I see that he can not perform the duties of the head of the family. I have, then, in my character of mother, to make a happy announcement to the company assembled." Then solemnly taking her daughter's hand, she said, "Draw nearer, Itzig."
Hitherto Itzig had silently stood with the rest, and stared at the old man, from time to time shrugging his shoulders, and shaking his head over the melancholy spectacle, as became his position in the family. But there was another form present before his eyes: he knew better than any who it was that wailed and groaned; he knew, too, who had died and had not forgiven. Mechanically he advanced, his eyes still fixed on Ehrenthal. The guests now formed a circle around him and Rosalie, and her mother took his hand.
Then the old man in the arm-chair began again. "Hush!" said he, distinctly; "there he stands—the invisible. We go home from the burial, and he dances among the women. He will strike down all he looks upon. There he stands!" he screamed, and rose from his chair. "There! there! Throw down your water-jars and fly into the house, for he who stands there is cursed of the Lord. Cursed!" he screamed; and, clenching his hands, he tottered like a madman toward Itzig.
Itzig's face grew ghastly; he tried to laugh, but his features quivered with fear. Suddenly the door was opened, and his errand-boy looked anxiously into the room. One glance sufficed to tell Itzig all that the youth had to say. He was discovered—he was in danger. He sprang to the door and disappeared.
Lay aside your bridal attire, fair Rosalie; throw off the turquoise bracelet. For you there is no betrothal—no marriage feast. Soon you will leave the town with drooping head, glad, by flying among strangers, to escape the mockery of cruel hearts at home. The gold that your father heaped up for his children by usury and fraud will again roll from hand to hand, will serve good and bad alike, will swell the mighty tide of wealth by which human life is sustained and adorned, peoples and states made great and powerful, and individuals strong or weak, each according to his work.