The father glanced at the son, and then looked at him again. Then his eye fell on the hour-glass.
"Why did you turn the glass over? Why do you wake me before it is day?"
"Oh come! You know, Father, that time is precious and runs away like sand. Will you get up?"
The old man turned uneasily in his bed several times, and glanced ever anew at his son, now searchingly, now fearfully, now angrily.
Moses had turned away and went to the writing table near the window; the old man sat upright and drew up his knees. The sand in the glass trickled down—down, and the old man's eyes became more and more fixed. Had he had a dream during his short sleep and was now considering whether this dream might not be truth; who could say? Had it become clear to him all of a sudden that in giving his child the treasure that he had concealed so long and so well he was giving him only darkness and ruin? What a life he had led in order to be able to celebrate that hour of triumph yesterday! Woe to him!
The son threw shifty glances over his shoulder at his father.
"What is the matter, Father? Are you not well?"
"Quite well, Moses, quite well. Be quiet, I will get up. Do not be angry. Be quiet—that your days may be long upon earth."
He rose and dressed. Esther came with breakfast but she almost let the tray fall when she looked into her old master's face.
"God of Israel! What is the matter, Freudenstein?"