“Yes; perhaps thou didst again imagine I was on my deathbed?” she replied, with bitter irony. “It is not so, Sarah. I would have come of myself, only thou wouldst not see my face.” “I have seen it for twenty years--it is another’s turn now.” He was silent. “It is true all the same. I am on my deathbed.” He started. A pang shot through his breast. He darted an agitated glance at her face. “Is it not so? In this bed I shall die. But God knows how many years I shall lie in it.” Her calm gave him an uncanny shudder. “And till the Holy One, blessed be He, takes me, thou wilt live a daily sinner.” “I am not to blame. God has stricken me. I am a young man.” “Thou art to blame!” Her eyes flashed fire. “Blasphemer! Life is sweet to thee, yet perhaps thou wilt die first.” His face grew livid. “I am a young man,” he repeated tremulously. “Thou dost forget what Rabbi Eliezer said: ‘Repent one day before thy death’--that is to-day, for who knows?” “What wouldst thou have me do?” “Give up----” “No, no,” he interrupted. “It is useless. I cannot. I am so lonely.” “Give up,” she repeated inexorably, “thy wife.” “What sayest thou? My wife! But she is not my wife. Thou art my wife.” “Even so. Give me up. Give me Gett [divorce].” His breath failed, his heart thumped at the suggestion. “Give thee Gett!” he whispered. “Yes. Why didst thou not send me a bill of divorcement when I left thy home for this?” He averted his face. “I thought of it,” he stammered. “And then----” “And then?” He seemed to see a sardonic glitter in the gray eyes. “I--I was afraid.” “Afraid!” She laughed in grim mirthlessness. “Afraid of a bed-ridden woman!” “I was afraid it would make thee unhappy.” The sardonic gleam melted into softness, then became more terrible than before. “And so thou hast made me happy instead!” “Stab me not more than I merit. I did not think people would be cruel enough to tell thee.” “Thine own lips told me.” “Nay, by my soul,” he cried, startled. “Thine eyes told me, then.” “I feared so,” he said, turning them away. “When she--came into my house, I--I dared not go to see thee--that was why I did not come, though I always meant to, Sarah, my life. I feared to look thee in the eyes. I foresaw they would read the secret in mine--so I was afraid.” “Afraid!” she repeated, bitterly. “Afraid I would scratch them out! Nay, they are good eyes. Have they not seen my heart? For twenty years they have been my light. Those eyes and mine have seen our children die.” Spasmodic sobs came thickly now. Swallowing them down, she said: “And she--did she not ask thee to give me Gett?” “Nay; she was willing to go without. She said thou wast as one dead--look not thus at me. It is the will of God. It was for thy sake, too, Sarah, that she did not become my wife by law. She, too, would have spared thee the knowledge of her.” “Yes, ye have both tender hearts! She is a mother in Israel, and thou art a spark of our father Abraham.”