The signal that the long day’s service was at an end—the blowing of the ram’s horn—recalled him to himself; and folding up his talith, he made his way with the others to the vestibule. The refreshing breeze from the street came as a blessed relief after the close atmosphere of the interior of the synagogue, and he leant against the balustrade for a moment before searching for his hansom. All around him the people were dispersing, and as he listened to their kindly greetings to each other, he realised the close bond of unity—more evident in the Jewish than in any other faith—which drew them together with irresistible force. A few of the men with whom he was acquainted came up to him to shake hands. One—the treasurer of the synagogue—lingered for a few moments’ conversation.
“Sudden thing this—death of the Premier,” he remarked, attacking the subject which was uppermost in his mind. “Heart failure, Cohen says. Struck down all in a minute. Bad thing for the Chosen, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, very,” Montella returned seriously, with emphasis on the words. “I saw poor Campbell only last week. I had no idea that he was subject to heart attacks.”
“Nor I either. I am sorry—very sorry. Campbell was the right man in the right place, and a difficult place it is nowadays. Can you tell me who will be likely to succeed him in the premiership?”
A little knot of men gathered round him as he put the question, leaving their women-folk to hasten towards home and food. Lionel Montella had been singled out and recognised, and the opportunity of rubbing shoulders with him and listening to his words was too valuable to be passed by. That they were personally unacquainted with him mattered not in the least, and he was so used to being lionised that he did not dream of considering their curiosity impertinent.
“Don’t you know?” he said slowly, with a slight tremor of agitation in his voice. “The successor to Lawrence Campbell will be the very last man we want to see in power. I mean Athelstan Moore.”
Athelstan Moore—the avowed anti-Semite and rabid Jew-hater, a man who possessed the dangerous power of swaying men’s minds by the force of his rhetoric, of fascinating them by the strength of his personality, of completely subjugating them by the influence of his invincible will. No wonder a thrill ran through the hearts of the people as Montella pronounced the name.
“That rabid enemy of the Jews!” exclaimed the treasurer, in dismay. “Why, the lives of our poorer brethren will not be worth twopence if he is at the head of the State.”
Montella’s face was more expressive than he knew.
“We must not make trouble for ourselves,” he said, his words belying the troubled expression in his eyes. “We must hope that Moore is not so black as he’s painted. After all, he’s only a man, and even as chief Minister of State he can’t do more than exercise powers which are distinctly limited. Unfortunately, since the influx of Roumanian immigrants at the beginning of the century, anti-Jewish feeling among the masses has been increasingly strong. I’m afraid that it’s the impolitic and regrettable behaviour of the immigrants themselves which has brought this about. It has needed all our strength to counteract this feeling, and I am afraid it will need more than ever now. One thing we must make up our minds to do, and that is to stand by each other, no matter what our social position may be. We must remember the old truism that ‘Unity is strength.’”