"Who vows--_cinco livras_"--he went on glibly without a pause--"for charity--for the life of Yankov ben Yitzchok, his son-in-law, &c., &c." But few of the worshippers heard any more than the _cinco livras_ (five pounds). A thrill ran through the building. Men pricked up their ears, incredulous, whispering one another. One man deliberately moved from his place towards the box in which sat the Chief of the Elders, the presiding dignitary in the absence of the President of the Mahamad. "I didn't catch--how much was that?" he asked. [Illustration: "'I DIDN'T CATCH.'"] "Five pounds," said the Chief of the Elders shortly. He suspected an irreverent irony in the Beggar's contribution. The Benediction came to an end, but ere the hearers had time to realise the fact, the Master Reader had started on another. "May He who blessed our fathers!" he began, in the strange traditional recitative. The wave of curiosity mounted again, higher than before. "Who vows--" The wave hung an instant, poised and motionless. "_Cinco livras!_" The wave broke in a low murmur, amid which the Master imperturbably proceeded, "For oil--for the life of his daughter Deborah, &c." When he reached the end there was a poignant silence. Was it to be _da capo_ again? "May He who blessed our fathers!" The wave of curiosity surged once more, rising and subsiding with this ebb and flow of financial Benediction. "Who vows--_cinco livras_--for the wax candles." This time the thrill, the whisper, the flutter, swelled into a positive buzz. The gaze of the entire congregation was focussed upon the Beggar, who stood impassive in the blaze of glory. Even the orphan boys, packed in their pew, paused in their inattention to the Service, and craned their necks towards the platform. The veriest magnates did not thus play piety with five pound points. In the ladies' gallery the excitement was intense. The occupants gazed eagerly through the grille. One woman--a buxom dame of forty summers, richly clad and jewelled--had risen, and was tiptoeing frantically over the woodwork, her feather waving like a signal of distress. It was Manasseh's wife. The waste of money maddened her, each donation hit her like a poisoned arrow; in vain she strove to catch her spouse's eye. The air seemed full of gowns and toques and farthingales flaming away under her very nose, without her being able to move hand or foot in rescue; whole wardrobes perished at each Benediction. It was with the utmost difficulty she restrained herself from shouting down to her prodigal lord. At her side the radiant Deborah vainly tried to pacify her by assurances that Manasseh never intended to pay up. [Illustration: "SHE STROVE TO CATCH HER SPOUSE'S EYE."] "Who vows--" The Benediction had begun for a fourth time. "_Cinco livras_ for the Holy Land." And the sensation grew. "For the life of this holy congregation, &c." The Master Reader's voice droned on impassively, interminably.