The McCook tribune. (McCook, Neb.) 1886-1936, 1893-05-19

W >IGJ1If'''.f Wv s the, W, wa 2 ere,
ened, Israel KAT
ka was transformed. He no longer
stood with outstretched arms, his
back against a c%rumbling slab, his
flmy eyes fixed on Unorna's face.
He grew younger, his features were
those of a boy of scarcely 13 years,
pale, earnest and frightened by a
soft light, which followed him hither
and thither, and he was not alone.
He moved with others through the
old familiar streets of the city, clothed
in a fashion of other times, speaking
in accents comprehensive but unlike
the speech OF today, acting in a dim
and far-off life that had once been.
The Wanderer looked. and, as in
dreams, he knew that what he saw
was unreal. he knew that the chang
ing walls and streets and houses and
public places were built up of grave
stones, which, in truth. were deeply
planted in the ground, immovable and
incapable of spontaneous motion; he
knew that the crowds of men and
women were not human beings, but
gnarled and twisted trees rooted in
the earth, and that the hum of voices
that reached his ear was but the sound
OF dried branches bending in the
wind; he knew that Israel Kafka was
not the pa~'e-faced boy who glided
from place to place, followed every
where by a soft radiance; he knew
that Unorna was the source and origin
of the vision, and that the mingling
speeches Of the actors, now shrill in
angry alteration, now Kissing in low,
fierce whisper, we're really formed up
on Unorna's lips and made audible
through her tones, as the chorus of
indistinct speech proceeded from the
swaying trees.
In one corner Of the dusky place
th2re was q little light. A boy stood
there. beside a yelled woman, and the
light that seemed to cling about him
was lot the. reflection of gold. He
was very young. His pale face had
in it all the lost beauty of the Jewish
race, the lips were clearly cut, even
pure in outline and firm, the forehead
broad with thought, the features no.
BILE, a~quiline-not vulture like.
He stood there looking on at the
scene in the market place, o won
dering, for nothing OF it was new to
him; not s~cOrning, tor he felt no hate;
not w%rathful, for he dreamed of peace.
He would have had it otherwise
that was all.
LET us CO." he said, in a low
voice. '|The air is full OF gold and
heavy. l cannot breathe it
'Whither??n asked the roman
Thou knowest,' he
And suddenly the faint radiance that
was always about him grew brighter.
and spread out arms behind him, to
the right and left, in the figure of a
cross.
They walked together, side by side,
quickly and often glancing behind
them, as though to see whether they
were followed. And yet it seemed as
though it was not they who moved,
but the city about them which
changed. All at once they were stand
ing before the richly carved doorway
of the Teyn church, the very door
way out of which the Wanderer had
followed the tleeting shadow o.
Beatrice's figure but a month ago
And then they paused and looked
again to the right and left, and
searched the dark corners with pierre
ing glances.
Thy life is in thine hand" said
the woman, speaking close to the
boys ear. at is yet time. Turn
with me and let US go back"
what is there to fear:?" he asked.
'tDeath," answered the woman, in
a trembling tone. They will kill
thee, and it shall be upon my head"
And what is death?" he asked
again, and the smile was still upcn
his face, as he led the way up the
steps.
The oma bowed her head. and
drew her veil more closely about her,
and followed him. Then they were
within the church, darker, more
ghostly, less rich in those days than
now.
lis it thus?n he asked, and the
heavenly smile grew more radiant as
he made the sign Of the cross.
'.Beit not upon me-" she exclaimed,
earnestly. Though I would it might
be forever so with thee
at is forever" the boy answered.
He went forward and Frustrated
himself before the high altar.
An old man in a monks robe came
forward out of the shadow of the
choir, and stood behind the marble
rails, and looked down at the boys
PROSTATE figure. wonderingly. Then