“I’d forget that in being a lover to the others.” “Thou wouldst not change thy faith for a woman?” “Now, I’d swear I would not. If like most men, and in love, I’d swear I would; and then, having gotten my new priestess, in a little while, backslide and drag her with me, or make her heart weep. My comfort in the last estate being my consistency, if not my constancy. What a mad rout it is when religion and love, born twins, cross purposes?” “That’s a very true, yet bitter speech. I’ll tell the Hebrew maidens to beware.” “Better tell me to beware, now. It’s the beginning that makes the trouble. No beginning, then no after folly.” The procession glided past and the pilgrims followed at a distance. “We are within an arm of dear old Jabbock,” remarked Ichabod, as they came to a river-bank, later. “Ah, ha! my chartless pilot, does the current whisper its name to thee, in Hebrew? I’d not wonder if it did, since every thing is clannish in this country.—I hope there is no more swimming for us to do.” “Its tumbling waters are full of voices to me, blending with echoes of things of the past; but one who spoke a thousand times more tenderly than ever spoke murmuring waters, told me its name, knight.” “Nourahmal? No! rather some one of those pious beauties we passed not long ago. Oh, roguish Ichabod, I remember thou wert away a long time in the morning after our breakfast of peas and grapes. But, dear Ichabod,” continued Sir Charleroy, feigning rebuke, “didst thou so soon forget thy little convert of Jericho? I wonder if thou lifted up thy voice and wept when thou kissed the maid that told thee the river’s name? Come, confess, and I’ll call thee Isaac.” “Raillery of prime quality, knight; but raillery and ridicule, though keenly pointed, are generally bad arrows for long range.” “Well, no matter. I’m glad thou knowest the place, if thou dost know it. Who told thee the name of this water?” “One with a voice to me sweeter, kinder than that of any betrothed lover’s ever can be.” “Very, very eloquent thou art. Indeed, if we were in Italy, I’d guess ’twas a syren had communed with thee; in France, a Crusader troubadour; in Rhineland, the water sprite, Lurline; but, being in this wondrous country of revelations, apparitions, prophets, angels and the like, I can only as a catechumen, ask thy dulcet informer’s name?” “How oddly thou dost talk when thou talkest as a double man; half sneering infidel; half Christian preacher.” “A truce, Ichabod. That may be a home-thrust well aimed, but it’s enough that one of us be bitter. It’s sometimes natural to me, but not to thee.” “A bee-sting will redden the high priest’s brow.” “Well, I’ll not sting thee. Who gave the name of the river?” “Master, one to me alone of all the world an angel, my mother. I was born near here, and the memories of a youth made happy by one all patient, all loving, rises above and survives all changes.”