“Yes, but it is heaped with cargoes—with bales of silk, and pockets of spices, and goods of every kind.”
Then for a moment the face of the applicant lost its stolidity; the lustreless, staring eyes dropped. With some warmth he next said, “I do not care for myself, but I have with me my wife, and the night is cold—colder on these heights than in Nazareth. She cannot live in the open air. Is there not room in the town?”
“These people”—the keeper waved his hand to the throng before the door—“have all besought the town, and they report its accommodations all engaged.”
Again Joseph studied the ground, saying, half to himself, “She is so young! if I make her bed on the hill, the frosts will kill her.”
Then he spoke to the keeper again.
“It may be you knew her parents, Joachim and Anna, once of Bethlehem, and, like myself, of the line of David.”
“Yes, I knew them. They were good people. That was in my youth.”
This time the keeper’s eyes sought the ground in thought. Suddenly he raised his head.
“If I cannot make room for you,” he said, “I cannot turn you away. Rabbi, I will do the best I can for you. How many are of your party?”
Joseph reflected, then replied, “My wife and a friend with his family, from Beth-Dagon, a little town over by Joppa; in all, six of us.”