"And is Bethulah content with her destiny?" I asked.
"She is in the seventh heaven," said the elderly saint.
I had a poignant shudder of incredulous protest. I recalled the flush of her sweet face at the sight of me, and brief as our meetings had been, I dared to feel that the irrevocable thrill had passed between us; that the rest would have been only a question of time.
"Let Bethulah tell me so herself," I cried, "and I will leave her in her heaven."
The men looked at one another. Then the eldest shook his head. "No; you shall never speak to her again."
"We have maidens more beautiful among us," said the young man. "You shall have your choice. Ay, even my own betrothed would I give you."
I flicked aside his suggestion. "But you cannot prevent Bethulah walking under God's heaven." They looked dismayed. "I will meet her," I said, pursuing my advantage. "And Yarchi and other good Jews shall be at hand."
"She shall be removed elsewhere," said the first.
"I will track her down. Ah, you are afraid," I said mockingly. "You see it is not true that she is content to be immolated."
"It is true," they muttered.