They go out. David, exhausted, sits down in an arm-chair and lowers his grey head. He reads something softly.
ANATHEMA.
They have gone, David. Do you hear? They have gone away.
DAVID.
Nullius, did you see? It was a dead child. Moishe.... Yes, yes, Moishe, a dark little one; we looked at him.... (Loudly, in despair.) What shall I do? Teach me, Nullius.
ANATHEMA.
Quickly.
Flee!
Listens to what is going on outside the window, nods his head affirmatively, and advances to David cautiously, like a conspirator; David waits for him, with his arms folded as in prayer, a confident smile on his lips. His back is bent, and he frequently takes his red kerchief from his pocket, but does not know what to do with it.
ANATHEMA.