So the years passed, until the sad autumn of 1863 came. The Poles had risen against the great Eastern nation, and a whispered rumor went through the land, that pestilence, the terrible sister of war, was again aroused. Therefore the gravedigger did not believe that little Lea, "the child of atonement," would live. * * * * * The funeral of old Moses Freudenthal was over. He was a very old man, and few mourners followed him to the grave. After the service was over, these went away immediately, and the old rabbi, also, did not linger. The widow had humbly waited for this moment to step forward and ask the rabbi to come and see her child. She added no word of entreaty, but something in the tone of her voice, and in the expression of her eyes, involuntarily touched the heart of the old man. This woman embarrassed him--for was she not displeasing to God? Was not the destiny of the child well known--this "child of atonement"?... But he went to the little house, and entered the room where the sick child lay. He bent over the bed, and looked at her in silence for a length of time. His expression was stern and harsh when he raised his head. With intense anxiety the mother waited for him to speak, but the old man turned to go without uttering a word. "Will you not bless the child?" asked the widow. "Woman," answered the rabbi, gloomily, "no blessing can save her; and besides, I can not do it: it would be interfering with the Almighty." Miriam threw herself upon the bed, with a loud cry, clasping the unconscious child to her heart, as though she would save her from every one, even from God. "Why," she cried, "why, rabbi?" The old man looked at her darkly, then his eyes, as if confused, sought the ground. "You know," he said with hesitation, "why you and your husband were married. You know why he died, and what was the object of his death. You know the word that the great rabbi of Sadagora has spoken concerning you and your child. And ... now ... the 'Great Death' is coming again...." The woman understood him. "Ah," she whispered, in a low voice of indescribable scorn. With flaming eyes and glowing face she rose from the bed, so that she stood opposite the rabbi, and hissed out, "You lie, rabbi, you lie! My child shall not die!... God is wise, gracious, and just; but you, neither you, nor any of the others, are like God! You want to be just, and yet you demand that an innocent child should expiate your sins by its death! You want to be gracious, and yet you desire the death of another! You want to be wise, and yet you believe that God will allow this--our good, strong, just God!" She clasped her hands over her forehead, tottered, and sank fainting on the floor. "May God judge between you and me!" murmured the old man as he left the room. * * * * *