"Moses Cohen, you will retract and apologize in your next issue, or I shall prosecute the Messenger for slander."
"I have only told the truth," answered the young editor, doggedly. "You are no longer a Jew."
"I am always a Jew," said Shagarach. "Though I worship not with the ancient rites and forms, adapted for simple minds, my God is the God of my fathers and my heart is with my people. I value them, I love them, better than some who prey on their prejudices and wring ducats by pretended piety."
"But——" urged Cohen, stiff-necked and arrogant.
"I have spoken," said Shagarach. "You have slandered me. Retract."
When he left Silberstein's house the Ghetto was deserted. The people had fled within, and he saw Rabofsky far up the street, warning them with uplifted hands. Only two or three children, with eyes like jewels, played on the curbstone, innocent of the guile that comes with years. Shagarach lifted one of these in his arms and kissed her. "Good-by," lisped the baby, as he continued his walk.
Bitter tears came into the strong man's eyes.
That night he wrote late in his chamber; and though he was usually the earliest of risers, the next morning his mother knocked on his door repeatedly in vain.
"It is the trial day, my son," she said, loudly. Slowly he arose and rubbed his eyes. His clothing was dusty with the bedding lint. And when he came down to the breakfast table his look was mournful and abstracted.