"I had begun to ask Saul Aronson a question," resumed Barentzen, in a tone of rebuke. "Would you not rather lie like your fathers with the shards on your eyelids and a handful of earth from the land of Israel thrown over your resting-place?"
Aronson hung his head.
"Enough of this pleading and coaxing," snarled Cohen. "He is stiff-necked, I see. I will put his name with the other traitors. There are twenty in all. They shall be published in the next issue."
"Stay," said Aronson.
"On the first page," said Silberstein. "And the first page shall be hung outward in my store window."
"That the very children may know them for apostates and greedy hypocrites," added Rabofsky, to clinch the threat.
"Hold," cried Aronson. He foresaw the fatal result of his misstep. He could hear the storm rising around him; the clamor of children on the streets, the pointed fingers of men and women, the ironical comments from the doorstep groups when he passed, the sly digs at the supper table, the estranged glances of his mother. "It is all wrong," he cried.
"Then, why do you haunt the gentile mountebanks?" asked Cohen, seizing his sleeve.
"Fangled like a fop!" said Silberstein, catching his lapel.
"And shun the blessed synagogue?" added another, fumbling at his vest buttons.