VI

"And what more is required of you, young man," the harsh voice went

on croaking, "in return for this fortune, than to carry out the

instructions of your elders: to follow cleanliness; to do justly; to

love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God! But I have done. Time

does not avail for more. Study what is written on that paper I have

pinned within the letter in Hebrew. I am old, and the fountain of my

tears is dry, but mine eyes were moistened when the good old man

entreated of his last descendant--even with his foot upon the

threshold of Death.... Stay, I will read to you his letter. Listen

to this!"

"_John, son of John, my youngest and best-beloved! All thine elders

being removed by the Will of the Most High, it falls to thee to take

upon thee the Guardianship of the Sacred Ashes, and the Keeping of

the Ancient Shrine. Thou wilt not refuse? Oh, child of my

child!--the hand that pens this page, before my very eyes into the

dust is crumbling. Wouldst thou live as long? Then be dutiful.

Wouldst thou be happy? Happiness is the gift of Heaven, but a good

conscience brings peace. Seek then the peace, and happiness will

follow. If the dying prayer of an old man is granted, Those Others

that have been before me may be permitted to guide thee in the Way

wherein thou shouldst go. Farewell! Forget not to say Kaddish for

thy father's father;--Eli Ben Hazaël._"

The voice: not Old Mendel's croak, but a deep voice rolling out of

the mist of centuries, wakening sub-conscious memories, thrilling

along the nerves to energise long-atrophied cells in the listener's

brain, ceased: and the icy thrills left off coursing down John

Hazel's spinal column, and his strong, wiry hair left off bristling

and lay down. The paper crackled as it was thrust once more into the

envelope, and tossed back upon John's lap. John said, clearing his

throat and speaking with some degree of huskiness:

"I don't quite tumble to the meaning of all this about the

Guardianship of the Ashes and the Keeping of the Shrine, but, of

course, I'd say Kaddish for him--like a bird--if I knew it! I'm not

quite such a howling brute as you seem to think! Didn't you make me

say it for my father when I was a little kid in petticoats? I seem

to remember something of the kind."

"Well, if I did, was it not a good deed? But now that you are man

grown you have cast off the faith of your fathers. And Kaddish

cannot lawfully be said by one who is not a Jew! When you have made

up your mind whether you will be a rich Jew--or a heathen no better

off than many others--write to me at your uncle's Hull address!"

Mendel, who had resumed his seat, snapped his mouth shut, and snapped

shut the calfskin bag--and stood up and went on--in the act of

buttoning the single-breasted brown great-coat. "As to the Shrine,

it's at Alexandria, and the Ashes are naturally where the Shrine

is--not that I've any information to give you on that point. But the

other--less sacred obligation--you may discharge as soon as you see

fit. The accounts and the documents touching Kir Saba--some of them

are very old and should be handled carefully!--must be taken to

Scotland and delivered to the representatives of the original

mortgagor, whose address is there written--by no other hands than

your own. A gift of five hundred pounds English has been bequeathed

you by your grandfather,--without further condition than that you

render him this service. The cash will be paid you by a cheque upon

London as soon as I receive the receipt for the documents. You will

naturally not part with them without receiving this acknowledgment.

Take care! Haven't I warned you?"

John's big fingers were prying into a flat wallet of mouldy parchment

sewn with something like ancient silkworm-gut, and containing an

oblong of crumbly brown....

"What on earth is it? ... It looks like seaweed.... Or an old felt

sole out of somebody's boot! ..."

"It is the original Title Deed of the Tower of Kirjath Saba and the

lands about it, granted by the Emperor Vespasian to the Tribune

Justus Martius, of the Tenth Roman Legion: on the tenth day of the

month of Ab--that is, August, in the second year of his reign."

"My holy hat! That was Anno Domini 70, when the Romans under Titus

took the Temple at Jerusalem and burnt--"

"Not burned but demolished, according to Josephus--the walls of the

Upper City alone being left standing--to shelter the garrison chosen

from the Roman Tenth Legion!--together with the three great towers

built by Herod--in order to demonstrate to Posterity how glorious a

city had been cast down.... Woe! for the madness and the wickedness

of the Pagans. Alas! for the Sacred City, a chattel in the hands of

the filthy unbeliever even to this day! Who shall restore the glory

of Jerusalem, or give back life to the dead place, or cleanse the

robe of snowy wool that hath been defiled by pitch?"

"I've heard you reel off things like this before, haven't I, when I

was a little beggar? I say! Do you know this rotten old sheepskin

is pretty well priceless? Why, it's about one thousand eight hundred

and forty-five years old! Those Johnnies at the British Museum would

hand over a pot of cash for it."

"Have I not told you to lose no time in returning the document to its

owner? Let him deal with it as he will! There is another parchment,

the original Deed of Mortgage dated in your Christian Era 1146.

Money was lent by Issachar Ben Hazaël, of Joppa (they spell it

'Jaffa' in these days)--to the Mortgagor, Sir Hugh Forbys, (they

write his name 'Hew'), Knight, and lord of the Strong Tower of Kir

Saba, in return for the right of user of the Tower, with its groves,

gardens, springs and vineyards; and all the 'purtnans' for the 'makyn

of wine.' When the cash with the interest, should be recovered, the

Title-Deed was to be given back to Forbys.... These later records

continue unbroken up to the June of the Christian year 1914. Examine

them at your leisure. They are faithfully translated and clearly

typed."

John answered and said unto the aged man, not being unmindful of the

bequest of £500.

"You make my head spin, chuckling about centuries as though they were

marbles! But I give you my word of honour, I'll swot all the

documents up. When have I to go down to hand them over to these

Scotch people? ... I suppose they do have some sort of a name?" ...

"They are a family of high repute and ancient standing on the Border.

The Forbis of Kerr's Arbour, Tweedburgh, N.B. Have you at any time

heard of them?"

"Never in my natural! They seem to have been thunderingly pally with

us Hazels somewhere about the Bronze Age.... Do you know 'em at

all?" ...

"Ask not foolish questions. What are the people to me? For a reason

that the documents will clearly explain to you, they have had no

intercourse with your family since the time of the Seventh Crusade."

"I wonder whether they'll be likely to know me when they see me?"

"Be not a Schlemihl! Where is the ring?"

"Which ring? You know, my head is fairly buzzing with all this

business! ... You've dropped on me like a sandbag out of an

Observation Rupert. Here--I've got it! Some ring!" ...

"It is a black onyx, a Greek gem of price, carved with a head of the

Pagan Hercules and in an ancient setting of gold. It was given to

your ancestor, Hazaël Aben Hazaël, by the Roman Prætor Philoremus

Florens Fabius, at Alexandria, in the reign of the Pagan Emperors

Diocletian and Maximianus--about the beginning of the fourth century

of the Christian Era." Mendel added as John groaned again at this

fresh evidence of antiquity, "This signet now belongs to you as head

of the House of Hazaël. Let me see you put it on the third finger of

your right hand!"

John obeyed. The great ring fitted the big finger as though it had

been made for it. The intaglio, worn thin by time and chipped at the

edges, was still beautiful, and though the tiny Greek letters at the

lower left-hand corner signified nothing to its new owner--the signed

work of a master-hand. John commented:

"He must have been a hefty chap, that old Hazaël!"

Mendel responded, buttoning up the brown overcoat:

"Your race have always been noted for breeding men of extraordinary

strength and stature. There is a fellow-ring to this, I am given to

understand, in the possession of the Forbis family. It is in high

relief, this being the intaglio. Remember, you will bequeath the

signet to your elder son, after you: as an heirloom which must always

be in the possession of the chief male of the line."

"Carrying on as though one was Rob Roy M'Gregor," John remarked

mentally. Then as Mendel made a strangle-knot in the purple woollen

comforter, adjusted his mittens and was about to re-lock the brown

bag:

"Here," he said suddenly, "you had better keep this for putting those

papers in. Can't leave them lying about on the bed! It's a bit old,

like me, and the worse for wear, like both of us. But I shan't

improve, and you're getting over the wound you got"--he jerked his

thumb as indicating a locality,--"over there. In the trenches. In

Belgium."

John explained at some length, Mendel seeming to expect it--that the

bit of shrapnel in his lung-tissue was of exceedingly small size.

That the symptoms of slight pain and breathlessness which had

persisted long after the healing of the chest-wound, had almost

vanished under treatment which had involved absolute rest: the

avoidance of talking; a sitting position maintained constantly, and

small but frequent doses of morphia.

"Morphia, eh? Dangerous stuff. Done with it now, let's hope!" said

Mendel jerkily. "Put back the papers in the bag when I've gone, and

mind you always keep it locked! Look here!--I've left you the key.

And so you're convalescent!" He went on in quite a different tone,

suggesting that he had only dropped in to inquire about the patient's

health about five minutes previously: "Well, well! And going out of

Hospital in another week--I think you said?"

"Not quite that, I didn't say!" pronounced John in his English. "The

C.M.O. pronounces me Posh, and the Military Medical Examination

Board'll be sure to certify me Fit for Service. I expect to be

drafted out to the Mediterranean pretty shortly--my battalion of the

Regiment having got transferred to the Eastern Expeditionary Force."

"Say not to Gallipoli, that shambles whither British soldiers are

sent as sheep to the slaughter! Stay, I babble foolishly! Have I

not knowledge that the British forces were yesterday withdrawn?"

"The hell you have! Why, where did you get it?"

"I made no reference to the Place of Burning. As to my knowledge, it

is common to the elders among our people: a nation that received

enlightenment from the Most High in dreams and visions, when the

naked woad-daubed savages of these British Isles were howling to the

Moon.... Make not calf's eyes at me! ... Did not naked savages cry

news for hundreds of miles from hill-top to hill-top in the War with

the Booren!--and was not the murder of the Gentile General Gordon at

Khartoum known within the hour to the idolaters in Damascus! What I

tell you is--there is no doubt at all!"

"But--but--they don't say a word about it in the papers!"

"_Prrtsch_! Is not that what the papers are for? And now, when do

you think to get back to business? I mean business in the City--not

that of killing other men. Though, as to the slaying of enemies,"

added Mendel, with strange yellow fire burning under his shaggy

eyebrows, "the Kings and warriors of Hebrew race have slain when

slaying was necessary. Saul his thousands and David his tens of

thousands and Joshua--who knows how many hundreds of thousands of the

Amorites and Canaanites! Nay, in your own veins there runs the blood

of famous men of battle. You should inherit, with your frame and

muscles, a measure of their fighting blood."

"Can that be why I sing whenever there's a scrap on?" asked John,

reflectively rubbing his ear.

"When scraps are on what? Tell me again, employing plainer

language," acidly commanded the old man.

"I mean, when I've--not often it's not been--worse luck!" returned

the young man in his slipshod grammar, "but now and then--come really

to close quarters with the--the enemy, you know." ...

"The Germans? Have no fear!--I am a Damascus Jew and not an Hebrew

of the Ashkenazim.... It matters not a _yod_ to me how many you have

killed. What is this about singing--when do you sing?"

John scowled and the dark red flush began to creep up under his dull

brown skin. He said gruffly, avoiding the inquisitive old eyes that

raked him, by looking past the edge of his sole remaining screen down

the vista of the long, clean, shining ward, at the big fire blazing

in a deep old-fashoined grate....

"Why, at first when I went to the Front--no amount of stabbing

stuffed sacks and shooting at dummy men--and bombing

others--could"--his prominent Adam's apple jumped as he gulped, and

his speech came from him in spurts of broken sentences--"bring me to

swallow the idea of--killing them. Well!--first two hours of the

Real Thing--I was sick and cold with sheer fright--just gibbering

with horror! Then we advanced, went in with the bayonet--and

I--began to like it, quite! Though when--some of us--got back and I

saw--a--a--Hair and a--a--Blood on my--on mine!--that I'd got to

clean off or get Hell from the Sergeant!--I was as sick--I give you

my word!--as a chap who's been ordered to drink a tin-cupful of

cold-drawn castor without a bit o' lemon to chew. Well, then, you

see, as I was retching, comes along the N.C.O. and hands me out some

chaff! 'Sick now bedad!' he was a wiry little Irishman, with a

brogue thicker than the mud--'Sick, are ye?--the big bucko that was

singin' as he hoisted Huns to glory wid the Haymaker's Lift!' Well,

of course I thought the beggar was joking--but next time--"

"Ay, yea!--what happened the next time?"

Old Mendel rubbed his withered hands and smiling widely, revealed the

fact that his still sound and white teeth were worn down quite level

with the gums.

"Next time? ..."

"Next time was--rather a personal affair. Mind you--I've never

talked about this to any other Service fellow. There's something

different about their point of view. It was in March last--we'd been

doing reserves at Richebourg St. V.--in the Neuve St. Chapelle

racket, and after the battle we were taking our turn in the

front-line trenches and making barricades! Shooting, you may guess,

for all we were worth, and Fritz was handing it back with the Mauser,

besides throwing 15 and 17-inch shells at us and enfilading our

parapet with sprays of bullets from one of their machine-guns. The

air was full of bangs and squeals and whistles, and every minute men

were toppling over: and the fellow on my right was a pal of mine:

we'd chummed up together like--a--like bricks! Well, there was a

badly wounded German near, lying outside in the thick of it.

Harding--my chum--put down his gun, gave me a wink--went over the

top--sniped at like anything!--brought the lousy beggar back--gave

him a drink,--put a coat under his head: and stowed him away behind

us at the bottom of the trench, to wait for the stretcher-bearers.

Then he came back to his place by me, loaded and went on shooting."

"And then?"

"Then, he--my pal--Harding--started rotting in his usual way; and I'd

just said to him in my usual way, 'Do dry up, you silly, brainless

lunatic!' when a revolver banged behind us, and Harding fell over on

me, and I was all one smother with blood and brains--_his_! When I'd

just told him he hadn't--you see the point of it?" John's mouth was

stretched in laughter, but he shuddered as though cold.

"He--" Old Mendel's eyes were fierce under their bushy brows as he

nodded, saying:

"_Day--day_! ... It does not need to be more plain. I understand

thee clearly. The German lying at the bottom of the trench had shot

the man who brought him in, through the head, from behind.... We

have wolves in the Anti-Lebanon--and when taken they will fight to

the death.... It is wisest to despatch them at once with the loaded

club, whenever you find them trapped. But what didst thou do to thy

wolf, O David! when the blood of thy Jonathan was wet upon thee?"

"I--went for the brute with the butt,--like mad!--and bashed him into

jelly." John shuddered and felt for his handkerchief and mopped his

face and neck. "He shot at me--twice--and nearly got me, but I--just

bashed on!"

"And didst thou sing as thou didst smite?"

"They--they said--when they got me away, and it took a lot to hold

me!--they said I talked a gibberish that nobody could understand."

"But I--possibly--might have understood it!" Old Mendel nodded

knowingly and briskly rubbed his hands. "Well, well?"

"Well, after that I made no bones about killing Germans. There were

nights when I used to creep out of the trench (nights when there was

nothing much doing) with a white cotton Pierrot's costume I'd picked

up pulled over my khaki, because of the star-shell showing me up dark

against the snow--and until the enemy got too knowing, I made quite a

bag every week--of Lonely Fritzes on Advanced Posts. Fellows began

to look at me rather queerly. I think I'd got a name for being a

bloodthirsty kind of beast. And the officers of my platoon'd say to

a man who was noisy and wanting in caution: 'If you let a cheep out

of you, So-and-so, during such and such an expedition--I'll tell

Hazel to kill you!' and he'd shut up--tight as a box."

"Aha!" Mendel hugged himself with his stiff brown sleeves and

chuckled. "I, Jew of Damascus as I am, do not wonder!--do not

wonder, knowing the stuff of which thy forefathers were made! Now I

should depart, for we have talked much, and the young woman in

starched linen is nodding at me and frowning. We Jews daily thank

the Creator that He did not make us women: but when there comes

pestilence, or War with wounds and fever, He cannot make too many

women to satisfy us! Now is there anything more to ask before I

leave you?"

"Nothing, I--Here, hold on for half a mo'! There is a question. If

I stick to my guns and don't turn Hebrew, what becomes of my

grandfather's cash?"

"Provision in the event you name is duly made in the Will. The three

hundred and eighty thousand pounds will go to found an Orthodox Jews

University that is to be built near Jerusalem--the money being vested

in the hands of certain Trustees. There are three Trustees. Lord

----, Sir Arthur ---- and Professor ----" the speaker named three

names of power--not only in Israel:--"but you will not let the money

go to found the University. _Shalôm!_ Is that not all?"

"All--except that I've not yet asked after my Uncle Benjamin Simonoff

at Hull."

"Thy Uncle Benjamin prospers exceedingly. Trade failed with Russia

when the North Sea Ports were closed; but the warehouses were

full--and Government paid much money for tallow, tar, green hides and

tanned skins. Benjamin is enlisted in a Home Defence Corps, and both

his sons are on the sea, serving in converted Hull trawlers. They

sweep for mines, set snares for what they call 'tin fish' and seem

content with life.... Woman, I have said that I am departing! Had I

not, it is not seemly for your sex to thrust themselves into the

private talk of men!"

"But you've been here already over an hour, and the doctors--"

The Ward Sister had swept down on him:

"I go, I go! ... Nay, but, look to the boy! He is swooning! ... Woe

to me! heedless and forgetful of his weakness.... I thought but of

confuting the errors of an Epicurean--and lo! I have injured the

child I loved!"

John, struggling in the clutches of a return-attack of

breathlessness, propped up high against hard pillows, tried to tell

Old Mendel not to bother, that he, John, was as right as nine-pence,

or would be in the shake of a guinea-pig's tail. But the words were

lost in suffocating gasps and pantings; from which, administered by

Nurse's skilful hands, the prick of a subcutaneous injection of

morphia presently delivered him....

The semi-relapse entailed another fortnight in Hospital: its tedium

infinitely relieved by the fulfilment of John's promise to swot over

the documents and papers in the bag. Which contained, besides a pair

of well-darned spare socks, and a clean blue-spotted handkerchief of

Mendel's, a bag of brown peppermint-rock, of the highly-flavoured

kind most fondly associated by John Hazel with the blameless days of

infancy. Alas! that the writer should be bound to the Wheel of Truth

as concerning this young man, so unheroic a hero. As soon as he was

well enough, he ate it all up.