It is the hour of his star.
He is just back from the Berlin Congress, bringing "Peace with Honor." The Continent has stood a-tiptoe to see the wonderful English Earl pass and repass. He has been the lion of a congress that included Bismarck. The laurels and the Oriental palm placed by his landlord on the hotel-balcony have but faintly typified the feeling of Europe. His feverous reception in England, from Dover pier onwards, has recalled an earlier, a more romantic world. Fathers have brought their little ones to imprint upon their memories the mortal features of this immortal figure, who passes through a rain of flowers to his throne in Downing Street. The London press, with scarce an exception, is in the dust at his feet—with the proud English nobles and all that has ever flouted or assailed him.
The sunshine comes floridly through the stained-glass windows, and lies upon the austere crucifix.
III
By what devious ways has he wandered hither—from that warm old Portuguese synagogue in Bevis Marks, whence his father withdrew under the smart of a fine from "the gentlemen of the Mahamad?"
But hark! The parson—as paradoxically—is reading a Jewish psalm.
"'The Lord said unto my lord: Sit thou on my right hand,
until I make thine enemies thy footstool.
The Lord shall send the rod of thy power out of Zion: be
thou ruler in the midst of thine enemies.
In the day of thy power shall the people offer thee freewill
offerings with a holy worship: the dew of thy birth is of
the womb of the morning.'"
The Earl remains impassive.
"Half Christendom worships a Jewess, and the other half a Jew."
Whom does he worship?