The Council Chamber was of goodly proportions, and was decorated by gold lettered panels, inscribed with the names of pious donors, thick as saints in a graveyard, overflowing even into the lobby. The flower and chivalry of the Spanish Jewry had sat round that Council-table, grandees who had plumed and ruffled it with the bloods of their day, clanking their swords with the best, punctilious withal and ceremonious, with the stately Castilian courtesy still preserved by the men who were met this afternoon, to whom their memory was as faint as the fading records of the panels. These descendants of theirs had still elaborate salutations and circumlocutions, and austere dignities of debate. "God-fearing men of capacity and respectability," as the _Ascama_ demanded, they were also men of money, and it gave them a port and a repose. His Britannic Majesty graced the throne no better than the President of the Mahamad, seated at the head of the long table in his alcoved arm-chair, with the Chief of the Elders on his left, and the Chancellor on his right, and his Councillors all about him. The westering sun sent a pencil of golden light through the Norman windows as if anxious to record the names of those present in gilt letters--"by permission of the Mahamad." [Illustration: "THE PRESIDENT OF THE MAHAMAD."] "Let da Costa enter," said the President, when the agenda demanded the great _Schnorrer's_ presence. The Chancellor fluttered to his feet, fussily threw open the door, and beckoned vacancy with his finger till he discovered Manasseh was not in the lobby. The beadle came hurrying up instead. [Illustration: "BECKONED WITH HIS FINGER."] "Where is da Costa?" panted the Chancellor. "Call da Costa." "Da Costa!" sonorously intoned the beadle with the long-drawn accent of court ushers. The corridor rang hollow, empty of Manasseh. "Why, he was here a moment ago," cried the bewildered beadle. He ran down the passage, and found him sure enough at the end of it where it abutted on the street. The King of _Schnorrers_ was in dignified converse with a person of consideration. "Da Costa!" the beadle cried again, but his tone was less awesome and more tetchy. The beggar did not turn his head. "Mr. da Costa," said the beadle, now arrived too near the imposing figure to venture on familiarities with it. This time the beggar gave indications of restored hearing. "Yes, my man," he said, turning and advancing a few paces to meet the envoy. "Don't go, Grobstock," he called over his shoulder. "Didn't you hear me calling?" grumbled the beadle. "I heard you calling da Costa, but I naturally imagined it was one of your drinking companions," replied Manasseh severely. "The Mahamad is waiting for you," faltered the beadle.