Perfect love, however, was hardly the order of that day, but rather perfect hate: for in Madison Square--the church being at the upper end of Fifth Avenue--a mob was being harangued on the subject of this very wedding: and when they heard and realized the thing that was being done before their eyes they were swept as by a wind of fire, and under its impulse set out like some swollen Rhone with a rushing sound to pounce upon the church, full of perfect hate: and the choir sang “O perfect love”. What happened now was described as a nightmare. The same elemental instincts of the Stone Age which had exhibited themselves in the $500-worth of food wrought in another form, but with no less savagery, in assassins as in victims: and a massacre ensued, bride and bridegroom passing away like bubbles, of “the Thirty-four” five only escaping. The report ended with the words: “The ringleaders have been arrested; quiet reigns through the city”; then a list of the guests, with asterisks indicating those killed. Rebekah searched for her father's name, and when she became certain that it was not there, her lips moved in thanksgiving. But since Frankl was not at the wedding, where, then, was Frankl? She counted the days on her fingers: he could not have been late. Unless there had been an accident to his ship.... Her brows knit a little; she peered into the fire: and thought of the _Boodah_.... It was possible that when her father's steamer stopped to pay sea-rent, Hogarth might have heard, and seized him. That notion occurred to her. And at once it threw her into an extraordinary fever, her bosom swelling like elastic in her heavings to catch breath, though she did not realize the wild thought that was working up to birth within her. She rose and paced, furiously fast. If he was in the hands of Hogarth? “He is a British subject”, she muttered: “Hogarth has not the right...Oh, he has not the right...!” She was fearfully agitated! something fighting up and up within her, stifling her, working to burst into birth; she flung the cashmire from her shoulders, her bosom rowing like two oarsmen. “Because we are Jews...!” she went. “If he _dared_ do that--!” What then? Say! Rebekah! “I would go to him myself--” All at once that thought was born, and she stood shockingly naked to her own eyes, her hands rushing to cover a face washed in shame. “But, surely”, she whispered, “I could never be so _bold_, good Heavens? Why, Never! Never--!” However, an hour later, with flaming eyes, she was writing a letter to Frankl's manager. XLI THE VISIT Frankl's Bank was scanning the agents' yacht-lists for her, when Sir Moses Cohen, who was closely associated with Frankl, placed his own three-master at her disposal; and she set out from Bristol, with her being three Jewish ladies, Frankl's manager, and a snuffy Portuguese rabbi who resembled a Rembrandt portrait.