Angry and sullen, the wife had said hard things of Zillah. Her frivolous, irresponsible nature was more than satisfied with the barest form of the faith of her race.
The two children were full of suppressed excitement, the elder—the boy—especially.
Cohen, the head of the house, was singularly quiet and grave. His eyes had a far-away look in them. He looked like a man moving in a trance.
Presently the boy, (he had been carefully coached) asked, according to the usual formula:
“What mean ye, father, by this Service?”
Cohen’s eyes stared over the head of his son, and in a voice very unlike its usual tones, replied:—
“It is the Sacrifice of Jehovah’s Passover, who halted by the blood-sprinkled houses of our fathers in Egypt, that the destroying angel should come not nigh, when He smote the Egyptians, but preserved our fathers.”
“Will our people ever do this, father?” queried the boy.
“Till Messiah come, they will, dear son.” The strained gaze of Cohen, as he answered, was as though he was trying to pierce Time’s veil, and see the coming Messiah approaching.