There flashed upon Chayim’s memory the black eyes and the bewitching countenance of Eda, whom he had known well and with whom, in the days of the revolution, he had spoken only of matters connected with the struggle. Now, learning that she was already married, he felt a queer twinge at his heart, and growing pale with emotion, he answered quickly, “Yes, certainly, I’ll go as her husband.” Then noticing that Henich eyed him suspiciously, he added: “I’ll avoid capture.” Henich, being an amiable sort of chap, slapped him on the back, “You--captured. That doesn’t worry us at all!” he exclaimed. Then, after having made arrangements for leaving in about a week, they separated. That week went by as slowly as a year for Chayim. But not because he was so eager to leave Warsaw and its terrors behind; rather because of his desire to travel as the husband of dear, beautiful Eda. The make-believe relationship began to take on for him a most serious aspect, and as he lay in his room, which was situated in a remote section of the town, he conjured up the pretty face of Sandrovitch’s young wife Eda, who would soon be under his own personal care. A trembling, new-born longing took possession of his heart.... Boruch Sandrovitch--Boruch Sandrovitch. He repeated the other man’s name over and over again, so as not to betray himself at the border. And so, muttering the name countless times during the week he began to feel that from now on he was no longer Chayim Grossman, former revolutionist, but Boruch Sandrovitch, a student of Berlin University, a fair-haired fellow of twenty-five, whom the beautiful Eda loved to distraction.... “Well, here is your wife!” Eda’s father, a tall, broad-boned Jew, with a patriarchal beard, and gold-rimmed spectacles on his aristocratic nose, turned to Chayim, who, at the words, was overcome by a sensation of sweet warmth that suffused his entire being. He stole a bashful glance at the slender Eda, who made a pretty picture as she stood there in her traveling clothes, smiling sweetly at him. “Take good care of her,” added Eda’s mother, a woman of some fifty years, with large eyes and dressed in black. “She’ll be as precious as the apple of my eye,” blurted Chayim fervently, and of a sudden blushed at the impassioned tones of his promise. “And be sure not to forget that you’re Boruch Sandrovitch,” admonished Eda, beaming at him with the same sweet, friendly smile. “I’ll remember that only too well,” exploded Chayim, with the same passion as before. “Here is the passport; I am now in your hands,” declared Eda, giving him the book. Chayim placed it carefully in his pocket, and gazing at Eda most eloquently he managed to exclaim: “This is a most pleasant charge.” And immediately he regretted his words.