“A pilgrim coming from Tatarjé, and looking for a night’s lodging,” returned Cyril.
“Are those women with you? How are we to know you are not Jews?”
“Do Jews generally go on pilgrimage to St Gabriel’s tomb?”
“How should I tell? I know nothing about Jews. But we are not going to have them in Karajevo, at any rate. Come, we must get this settled.”
“Here is your brandy, gentlemen,” said the hostess anxiously. “Don’t disturb the poor people. The young woman looks dead tired.”
“Musht be sure they’re not Jewsh,” said a young man, with tipsy gravity. “Can’t have the plashe defiled again, jusht when we’ve turned them all out. Are you Jewsh, you women?”
He addressed himself to the Queen, who shook her head and pointed to her tongue. The action appeared to arouse suspicion.
“Dumb?” said the butcher. “There was a Jew dumb to-day, but I cured him with a red-hot steel. It cast the dumb devil out of him, so Popa Vladimir said.”
“She is no more a Jew than you are,” said Cyril.
“Of course not,” said the hostess. “Here’s an easy way of settling it, gentlemen. Let the poor people kiss the blessed icon of St Peter which I will take down for you—no Jew would do that—and do you leave them alone, and come back to your brandy.”