"They are dead!" said Yankelé.
This time the Rabbi turned pale as a corpse himself. He laid down his knife and fork automatically.
"D—dead," he breathed in an awestruck whisper. "All?"
"Everyone. De same cholera took all de family."
The Rabbi covered his face with his hands. "Then poor Solomon's wife is a widow. I hope he left her enough to live upon."
"No, but it doesn't matter," said Yankelé.
"It matters a great deal," cried the Rabbi.
"She is dead," said Yankelé.
"Rebecca Schwartz dead!" screamed the Rabbi, for he had once loved the maiden himself, and, not having married her, had still a tenderness for her.
"Rebecca Schwartz," repeated Yankelé inexorably.