He was not aware of the theft till he found himself back in the house-of-study. He was very much surprised--he could not think how the cord had got into his pocket. "It is God's doing," he thought, with tears in his eyes; "God Himself wishes me to take my life, to hang myself!" and he felt a bitterly piteous compassion for himself in his heart. God who had created him, who had made him an orphan, who had sent him the small-pox, and had thrown the piece of the stove at him, wishes him now to hang himself. He has refused him _this_ world, and now he is to lose the other as well. Why? Because he had not mastered the seducer? How could he? All by himself--without parents, without companions--and the seducer is, after all, an angel, and has been under arms since the Creation; and Yössil feels very wretched and unhappy. God Himself is unjust to him, if He wishes him to hang himself. He sees it clearly, there is no uncertainty about it. And what is the outcome? If God wills it so, what can he do, he, the worm, the orphan? He cannot withstand the seducer, then how shall he dare to think of going against God? No; he will not attempt to go against God. He takes the rope and goes up into the loft of the Shool. He will not profane the house-of-study. He will not hang himself over against the Ark. In the loft there is a hook, equally provided by Him. How else should there be a hook up there? Who knows how long the hook has been waiting for him? God may have prepared it before he, Yössil, was born or thought of. Thus considering, he folded the rope. Something had occurred to him: And suppose the contrary? Suppose it to be the work of Satan? Suppose the same Satan who sends me the other thoughts had sent me this one, too? And he let the rope be--it is a matter for consideration. He must think it well over. To lose both this world and the world to come is no trifle. Thereupon the clock struck four--dinner-time and he became suddenly aware that his stomach was cramped with hunger. And he came down from the loft and left the rope folded up. Every night he feels drawn to the rope. He does what he can to save himself--he runs to the Ark, puts his head in among the holy scrolls, and cries pitifully to them for help. He frequently clasps a desk, so that it may be more difficult for him to leave the spot, or he clings with all his might to the old stove. And who knows what the issue of the struggle would have been but for the pestilence? Oh! now he drew a deep breath of relief. An end to hanging, an end to melancholy. They will have to give him a companion, and _not_ the Queen of Sheba; he is the _one_ orphan in the town. 4 SAVITZKI WITHDRAWS--YÖSSIL GOES INTO RETREAT