In the Calle Las Gabias—one of those by-streets of Lisbon below St.
Catherine—there occurred one New Year a little event in the
Synagogue there worth a mention in this history of Richard, Lord of
the Sea.

It was Kol Nidrè, eve of the Day of Atonement, and the little Beth- El, sweltering in a dingy air, was transacting the long-drawn liturgy, when, behind the curtain where the women sat, an old dame who had been gazing upward smote her palms together, and let slip a little scream: "The Day is coming…!"

She then fainted, and till near ten lay on her bed, lit by the Yom Kippur candle, with open eyes, but without speech, her sere face still beautiful, on each temple a little pyramid of plaits, with gold-and-coral ear-rings: a holy belle. About ten P.M. three women watching heard her murmur: "My child, Rebekah…!"

She was childless, and whom she meant was not known. However, soon afterwards there was a form at the amulet-guarded door, and Estrella sat up, saying: "Rebekah, my child…"

A young lady of twenty-two ran in and embraced her, saying: "I have been to Paris and Madrid with my father—just arrived, so flew to see you. We leave for London to-night".

"No: I shall keep you seven days. Tell Frankl I say so. What jewels! You have grown into a rose of glory, the eyes are profounder and blacker, and that brow was made for high purpose. Tell me—have you a lover?"

"No, mamma Estrella".

"Then, why the blush?"

"It is nothing at all," Miss Frankl answered: "five years ago when at school in Bristol I thrice saw through a grating a young man with whom I was frivolous enough to speak. Happily, I do not know what has become of him—a wild, divine kind of creature, of whom I am well rid, and never likely to see again".

The old lady mused. "What was he?"

"A sailor".

"Not a common sailor?"

"I fancy so, mamma".

"What name?"

"Hogarth—Richard".

"A Jew?"

"An Englishman!"

She laughed, as the old lady's eyes opened in sacred horror, and as she whispered: "Child!"

Within three months of that night, one midnight the people of Prague rose and massacred most of the Jewish residents; the next day the flame broke out in Buda-Pesth; and within a week had become a revolution.

On the twelfth morning one of two men in a City bank said to the other: "Come, Frankl, you cannot fail a man in this crisis—I only want 80,000 on all Westring—"

"No good to me, my lord," answered Frankl, who, though a man of only forty—short, with broad shoulders,—already had his skin divided up like a dry leaf; in spite of which, he was handsome, with a nose ruled straight and long, a black beard on his breast.

But the telephone rattled and Frankl heard these words at the receiver: "Wire to hand from Wertheimer: Austrian Abgeordneten-haus passed a Resolution at noon virtually expelling Jewish Race…."

When Frankl turned again he had already resolved to possess Westring
Vale, and was saying to himself: "Within six months the value of
English land should be—doubled".

The bargain was soon made now: and within one week the foresight of
Frankl began to be justified.

Austria, during those days, was a nation of vengeful hearts: for the Jews had acquired half its land, and had mortgages on the other half: peasant, therefore, and nobleman flamed alike. And this fury was contagious: now Germany—now France had it—Anti-Semite laws— like the old May-Laws—but harsher still; and streaming they came, from the Leopoldstadt, from Bukowina, from the Sixteen Provinces, from all Galicia, from the Nicolas Colonies, from Lisbon, with wandering foot and weary breast—the Heines, Cohens, Oppenheimers— Sephardim, Aschkenasim. And Dover was the new Elim.

With alarm Britain saw them come! but before she could do anything, the wave had overflowed it; and by the time it was finished there was no desire to do anything: for within eight months such a tide of prosperity was floating England as has hardly been known in a country.

The reason of this was the increased number of hands—each making more things than its owner could consume himself, and so making every other richer.

There came, however, a change—almost suddenly—due to the new demand for land, the "owners" determining to await still further rises, before letting. This checked industry: for now people, debarred from the land, had only air.

In Westring Vale, as everywhere, times were hard. It was now the property of Baruch Frankl: for at the first failure of Lord Westring to meet terms, Frankl had struck.

Now, one of the yeomen of Westring was a certain Richard Hogarth. 9HkO5Hn46WsP5DyqWcxn16hBl8BUO2PouDzsyIHrTHyQGtu1QoNm0FVAH5zd+jGj