It was towards the other end, however, that he went—in the direction of a chamber through the lattice-window of which a light was streaming. It was the sleeping apartment of the Jewess.
On arriving opposite the door, he knocked, not loudly—at the same time pronouncing, in a half-whisper, the name “Shoodith!”
“That you, rabbi?” inquired a voice from within; while a footstep passing across the floor told either that the Jewess had not yet sought her couch, or had sought, and again forsaken it.
The door was opened; and the worthy father of this wakeful daughter passed inside.
“Well,” said she, as he entered, “I won’t inquire what errand you’ve been on, my good papa Jessuron: some slave speculation, I suppose? But what have I to do with it, that you should compel me to sit up for you till this time of the night? It’s now near morning; and I am precious sleepy, I can tell you!”
“Ach! Shoodith, dear,” replied the father, “everything ish goin’ wrong! s’help me, everything!”
“Well, one might think so, from that doleful phiz of yours. What’s troubling you now, my worthy parent?”
“Ach! Shoodith! Don’t dishtress me by your speeches. I hash something of importance to shay to you, before I go to shleep.”
“Say it quick, then: for I want to go to sleep myself. What is it, pray?”
“Well, Shoodith, dear, it ish this: you mushn’t trifle any more with thish young fellow.”