"And why, then, do you not chase the insurgents, and give them up to the authorities?"
"That would not be natural for Jews. We are peaceful men and have a horror of war."
The colonel rose and walked up and down the room. Jankiel bowed low, and said to him in a low voice:--
"Your lordship knows, perhaps, that, following a custom of our religion, when a man is sentenced to death, it is the duty of the Jews where the execution takes place to offer a repast to the condemned."
"What is that you are saying? The custom of which you speak no longer exists. You have invented it. Why do you wish to see the prisoner, and how dare you lie to me?"
The custom did not really exist; Jankiel had imagined it in pious thought, but how could Colonel Tendemann know about it? That is what the Jew asked himself, fixing a scrutinizing glance on the officer.
"Why do you look at me thus? What do you mean?" cried the colonel.
"It is admiration, for your lordship must be deeply learned to know what the Talmud does and does not contain. You have then, no doubt, read that which the rabbin Ichochuah said of prisoners."
The colonel, pale and trembling, listened to the old man. There seemed to be a struggle going on within him; his lips trembled, and a mist came over his eyes; the voice of Jankiel made a strange impression on him. He tried to force himself to be cruel, but in vain,--an invincible sentiment held him. The old man remarked this emotion, but did not know how to interpret it.
After a short silence the colonel wiped his forehead, and said in an angry tone:--