“How did they get arms?” I asked.
“They have not many so far, but there is one who comes and goes among them,—one of themselves,—who brings, now a revolver or two, now a handful of cartridges, now a rifle taken to pieces; always at the risk of his life, but that to him is less than nothing.”
“Yossof!” I exclaimed.
He nodded, but said no more, for Count Vassilitzi came across the square to us.
“All is quiet?” he asked. “Good. We can do no more, and it is time we were off. You are Monsieur Wynn? I have heard of you from my cousin. We must be friends, Monsieur!”
He held out his hand and I gripped it. I’d have known him anywhere for Anne’s kinsman, he was so like her, more like her in manner even than in looks; that is, like her when she was in a frivolous mood.
There was quite a crowd now on the steps of the synagogue, a crowd of weeping women—yes, and weeping men, too,—who pressed around Anne, jostling each other in the attempt to kiss her hands, or even the hem of her gown.
She looked utterly exhausted, and I saw,—not without a queer pang at heart,—that Loris had his arm round her, was indeed, rather carrying, than merely supporting her.
“Let us through, good people,” I heard him say. “Remember that her peril is as great as yours, even greater.”