She glanced affectionately at Lionel. The Princess sighed. Perhaps a pang of compunction smote her for having left her own husband to lead a solitary life in the castle at Felsen-Schvoenig. Hers was a curious blending of character which the German Prince could not understand. She was alternately defiant and yielding; unfortunately, whenever she came into contact with her husband, the defiance predominated.
“To-day’s mail brought me a letter from Mamie,” she said, after a moment’s silence. “She seems to be getting on very well with her new husband, considering Moore’s temper. She says that he is more interesting than Chesterwood, because she never knows what sort of a mood he will be in next. There is something in that, you know.”
Patricia smiled.
“How does she like being the Prime Minister’s wife?” she asked.
“Oh, Athelstan is horrid in that way,” the Princess replied vaguely. “He doesn’t believe in women meddling with politics; and won’t tell her any State secrets.”
“Sensible man!” remarked Montella, with a playful glance at his wife; and then the cheering having begun anew, he returned to the parapet.
“The procession is coming,” announced Raie, who was looking down on the crowd. “Look: ‘What shall be done to the man whom the King delighteth to honour?’ There is the Scroll of Esther. I suppose they are going to the synagogue to read it.”
The procession was headed by the students of the new Haifa Jews’ College in full dress, and was unenlivened by the strains of any brass band. Instead, the weird chanting of Psalms in Hebrew smote the air, the voices sounding clear, but somewhat harsh. Men of all sorts and conditions followed on: the swarthy Pole walked side by side with the ruddy Saxon, the fair and slender Jerusalemite with the wiry Roumanian. Coming from a source so heterogeneous, they were yet able to sink their national differences on one common meeting-ground; and Hebrew, that sacred tongue of their fathers, served as a language for them all.
Lady Montella, with her arm within her son’s, watched them with swelling heart. To her, there was a deeper significance than the mere joy of Purim in the procession of rejoicing Jews. The chord of racial nationalism which lay so far down in her nature responded as to an harmonious touch, and quivered with an emotion which could scarcely be expressed in words. Years ago she had dreamt of a free gathering under the sign of the Shield of David. It seemed as if her dream had at last come true.
“Can I go down amongst the crowd, Aunt Inez?” asked Raie, breaking in upon her reverie. “I want to have a look at all the funny things the men are selling.”