"What? Even before the sentence of the Supreme Court has been passed?" the saints ask not without envy. "Oh!" answer the angels, "that will be a mere formality. The Prosecuting Attorney himself will find no words against Bontsie! The case will last but five minutes!" Bontsie Silent--that's no trifling matter! * * * * * As the angels carried Bontsie through the air and played sweet tunes to him; as Father Abraham shook his hand like that of an old comrade; as he heard that his chair was ready for him in Paradise, that a crown was waiting for his head, that no trifling words would be spoken against him before the Supreme Court,--Bontsie was frightened into silence just as in the other world! His heart failed him. He was sure that this was but a dream, or a mere mistake! He had been used to both. Many a time he had dreamed in the other world of picking up money from the floor where fortunes were lying.... More than once they had mistaken him for some one else; they had smiled at him, had said a good word, and then had turned aside, and spit out.... * * * * * "That's just my luck!" thought he. And he is afraid to raise his eyes for fear that the dream would disappear, that he should not awaken somewhere in a cave full of serpents and lizards. He is afraid to utter a sound, to move a limb, lest he be recognized and hurled to perdition. * * * * * He trembles and does not hear the compliments of seht nischt sejer Arumtanzen arum ihm, er entwert nischt Awrohom Owinu auf'n herzlichen Scholem-aleechem, un'--geführt zum Bess-din-schel-majle, sāgt er ihm kein "Gut Morgen" nischt.... Bonzje is' ausser sich var Schreck! Un' sein schreckliche Schreck is' noch grösser gewor'en as er hāt, nischt willendig, unter seine Füss' dersehn die Podloge vun Bess-din-schel-majle. Ssame Alabaster mit Brilljanten! "Auf asa Podloge stēhen meine Füss'!" Er wert in Ganzen verstarrt. "Wer wēisst, welchen Gwir, welchen Row, welchen Zadik män mēint ... er wet kummen, wet sein mein finsterer Ssof!" Var Schreck hāt er afile nit gehört, wie der Präses hāt befeeresch ausgerufen: "Die Djele vun Bonzje Schweig!" un', derlangendig dem Meeliz-jōscher die Akten, gesāgt: "Les', nor bekizer!" Mit Bonzjen drēht sich der ganzer Salon, es rauscht ihm in die Ōheren, nor in'm Gerausch hört er alle Māl scharfer un' scharfer dem Malech-meeliz's süss Kol wie a Fiedel: --Sein Nāmen, hört er, hāt ihm gepasst, wie zum schlank Leib a Klēid vun an Artist a Schneider's Hand." --Wās redt er? frägt sich Bonzje, un' er hört, wie an umgeduldig Kol hackt ihm über un' sāgt: * * * * * --Nor ohn' Mescholim!