Wounded by that temporary twinkle in his client's eye, the patron moved on silently, in step with the military air.
"It is a beautiful night," observed Yankelé in contrition. The words had hardly passed his lips before he became conscious that he had spoken the truth. The moon was peeping from behind a white cloud, and the air was soft, and broken shadows of foliage lay across the path, and the music was a song of love and bravery. Somehow, Yankelé began to think of da Costa's lovely daughter. Her face floated in the moonlight.
Manasseh shrugged his shoulders, unappeased.
"When one has supped well, it is always a beautiful night," he said testily. It was as if the cloud had overspread the moon, and a thick veil had fallen over the face of da Costa's lovely daughter. But Yankelé recovered himself quickly.
"Ah, yes," he said, "you have indeed made it a beaudiful night for me."
The King of Schnorrers waved his staff deprecatingly.
"It is alvays a beaudiful night ven I am mid you," added Yankelé, undaunted.
"It is strange," replied Manasseh musingly, "that I should have admitted to my hearth and Grobstock's table one who is, after all, but a half-brother in Israel."
"But Grobstock is also a Tedesco," protested Yankelé.
"That is also what I wonder at," rejoined da Costa. "I cannot make out how I have come to be so familiar with him."