Let us return to Mendel.

The unconscious boy was carried to the village by the sympathizing Israelites of Poltava. When he recovered his senses he found himself safely sheltered in the house of Reb Sholem, the parnas (president of the congregation). It was a pleasure to find kind sympathy, a warm room and a substantial meal, after the hardships of the last few days; but the constant recollection of Jacob’s disappearance, the reproaches which Mendel heaped upon himself for having deserted his brother, left him no peace of mind.

The Jews of Poltava displayed their practical sympathy by dividing into groups and scouring the village and the surrounding country, in hopes of finding some clue to the whereabouts of the boy. He might even now be wandering through the fields. Night, however, found them all gathered at Reb Sholem’s house, sorrowful and disheartened, as not a trace of the missing lad had been discovered. Mendel retired in a state of fever and tossed restlessly about on his bed during the entire night. He was moved by but one desire to get to his uncle at Kief as quickly as possible. In the morning he informed his host of his plans. A carrier of the village, who drove his team to within a few versts of Kief, was induced, upon the payment of an exorbitant sum, to take the boy as a passenger, and at dawn next morning they started upon their slow and tedious journey, followed by the good wishes of the Jewish community. It was an all-day trip to Kief. Over stone and stubble, through ditch and mire moved the lumbering, springless vehicle, and Mendel, who quitted Poltava with an incipient fever, arrived at his destination in a state of utter exhaustion. The carrier set him down at the outskirts of the town. It was as much as his position was worth to have harbored a Jew a fugitive from the military at that and slowly and painfully Mendel found his way through the strange city, to the Jewish quarter. Every soldier that crossed his path inspired him with terror; it might be some one charged with his recapture. Not until he reached his destination did he deem himself safe.

To the south-east of the city, stretched along the Dnieper, lay the Jewish settlement of almost fifteen thousand souls. The most dismal, unhealthy portion of the town had in days gone by been selected as its location. The decree of the mir had fixed its limits in the days of Peter the Great, and its boundaries could not be extended, no matter how rapidly the population might increase, no matter how great a lack of room, of air, of light there might be for future generations. The houses were, therefore, built as closely together as possible, without regard to comfort or sanitary needs. To each was added new rooms, as the necessities of the inhabiting family demanded, and these additions hung like excrescences from all sides of the ugly huts, like toadstools to decaying logs. Every inch of ground was precious to the ever-increasing settlement. It was a labyrinth of narrow, dirty streets, of unpainted, unattractive, dilapidated houses, a lasting monument of hatred and persecution, of bigotry and prejudice. Mendel gasped for a breath of fresh air, and, feeling himself grow faint, he hurried onward and inquired the way to Hirsch Bensef’s house. A plain, unpretentious structure was pointed out and Mendel knocked at the door.

Hirsch himself opened the door. For a moment he stood undecided, scarcely recognizing in the form before him, his chubby nephew of a week ago. Then he opened his arms and drew the little fellow to his breast.

“Is it indeed you, Mendel?” he cried. “Sholem alechem! (Peace be with you!) God be praised that He has brought you to us!” and he led the boy into the room and closed the door.

“Miriam,” he called to his wife, who was engaged in her household duties in an adjoining room; “quick, here is our boy, our Mendel. I knew he would come.”

Mendel was lovingly embraced by his cheerful-looking aunt, whom he had never seen, but whom he loved from that moment.

“What ails you, my boy? You look ill; your head is burning,” said Miriam, anxiously.

“Yes, aunt; I fear I shall be sick,” answered Mendel, faintly.

“Nonsense; we will take care of that,” replied Hirsch. “But where is Jacob?”

Mendel burst into tears, the first he had shed since his enforced departure from home. In as few words as possible he told his story, accompanied by the sobs and exclamations of his hearers. In conclusion, he added:

“Either Jacob wandered away in his delirium and is perhaps dead in some deserted place, or else the soldiers have recaptured him and have taken him back to Kharkov.”

“Rather he be dead than among the inhuman Cossacks at the barracks,” returned his uncle. “God in His mercy does all things for the best!”

“The poor boy must be starving,” said Miriam, and she set the table with the best the house afforded, but Mendel could touch nothing.

“It looks tempting, but I cannot eat,” he said. “I have no appetite.”

The poor fellow stretched himself on a large sofa, where he lay so quiet, so utterly exhausted, that Hirsch and his wife looked at each other anxiously and gravely shook their heads.

A casual stranger would not have judged from the unpretentious exterior of Bensef’s house, that its proprietor was in possession of considerable means, that every room was furnished in taste and even luxury, that works of oriental art were hidden in its recesses. Persecuted during generations by the jealous and covetous nations surrounding them, the Jews learned to conceal their wealth beneath the mask of poverty. Robbers, in the guise of uniformed soldiery and decorated officers of the Czar, stalked in broad daylight to relieve the despised Hebrew of his superfluous wealth, and thus it happened that the poorest hut was often the depository of gold and silver, of artistic utensils, which were worthy of the table of the Czar himself. Nor was this fact entirely unknown to the surrounding Christians. Not unfrequently were persécutions the outcome of the absurd idea that every Jewish hovel was the abode of riches, and that every hut where misery held court, where starving children cried for bread, was a mine of untold wealth. The condition of the race has changed in some of the more civilized countries, but in Russia these barbarous notions still prevail.

Hirsch Bensef, by untiring energy and perseverance as a dealer in curios and works of art, had become one of the wealthiest and most influential men in the community. He was parnas of the great congregation of Kief, and was respected, not only by his co-religionists, but also by the nobles with whom he transacted the greater portion of his business.

His wife, who had in her youth been styled the “Beautiful Miriam,” even now, after twelve years of married life, was still a handsome woman. Her dark eyes shone with the same bewitching fire; her beautiful hair had, in accordance with the orthodox Jewish custom, fallen under the shears on the day of her marriage, but the silken band and string of pearls that henceforth decked her brow did not detract from her oriental beauty. Hirsch was proud of her and he would have been completely happy if God had vouchsafed her a son. Like Hannah, she prayed night and morning to the Heavenly throne. Such was the family in whose bosom Mendel had found a refuge.

After a while, the boy asked for a glass of water, which he swallowed eagerly. Then he asked:

“When did you leave Togarog, uncle; and how are father and mother?”

Bensef sighed at the recollection of the sad parting and tearfully related the events of that memorable night.

“After the soldiers had carried you off,” he said, “the little band that followed you to the confines of the village, returned sorrowful to their homes. I need not tell you of our misery. It appeared as though God had turned his face from his chosen people. We spent the night in prayer and lamentations. In every house the inhabitants put on mourning, for whatever might befall the children, to their parents they were irretrievably lost.”

“Poor papa! poor mamma!” murmured Mendel, wiping away a tear.

“On the following morning,” continued Bensef; “all the male Jehudim went to Alexandrovsk and implored an audience of the Governor. He sent us word that he would hold no conference with Jews and threatened us all with Siberia if we did not at once return home. What could we do? I bade your parents farewell, and after promising to do all in my power to find and succor you and Jacob, I left them and returned home, where I arrived yesterday. Thank God that you, at least, are safe from harm.”

Mendel nestled closer to his uncle, who affectionately stroked his fevered brow.

“Oh! why does God send us such sufferings?” moaned the boy.

“Be patient, my child. It is through suffering that we will in the end attain happiness. When afflictions bear most heavily upon us, then will the Messiah come!”

This hope was ever the anchor which preserved the chosen people when the storms of misfortune threatened to destroy them. The belief in the eventual coming of a redeemer who would lead them to independence, and for whose approach trials, misery and persecution were but a necessary preparation, has been the great secret of Israel’s strength and endurance.

During the evening, a number of Bensef’s intimate friends visited the house and were told Mendel’s history. The news of his arrival soon spread through the community, awakening everywhere the liveliest sympathy. Many parents had been bereft of their children in the self-same way and still mourned the absence of their first-born, whom the cruel decree of Nicholas had condemned to the rigors of some military outpost. Mendel became the hero of Kief, while he lay tossing in bed, a prey to high fever.

In spite of the care that was lavished upon him, he steadily grew worse. Fear, hunger, exposure and self-reproach had been too much for his youthful frame. For several days Miriam administered her humble house-remedies, but they were powerless to relieve his sufferings. The hot tea which he was made to drink, only served to augment the fever.

On the fifth day, Mendel was decidedly in a dangerous condition. He was delirious. The doctors in the Jewish community were consulted, but were powerless to effect a cure. Bensef and his wife were in despair.

“What shall we do?” said Miriam, sadly. “We cannot let the boy die.”

“Die?” cried Hirsch, becoming pale at the thought. “Oh, God, do not take the boy! He has wound himself about my heart. Oh, God, let him live!”

“Come, husband, praying is of little avail,” answered his practical wife; “we must have a feldsher” (doctor).

“A feldsher in the Jewish community? Why, Miriam, are you out of your mind? Have you forgotten how, when Rabbi Jeiteles was lying at the point of death, no amount of persuasion could induce a doctor to come into the quarter. ‘Let the Jews die,’ they answered to our entreaties; ’there will still be too many of them!’”

Miriam sighed. She remembered it well.

“What persuasion would not do, money may accomplish,” she said, after a pause. “Hirsch, that boy must not die. He must live to be a credit to us and a comfort to our old age. You have money what gentile ever resisted it?”

“I will do what I can,” said the man, gloomily. “But even though I could bring one to the house, what good can he do. It is merely an experiment with the best of them. They will take our money, make a few magical incantations, prescribe a useless drug, and leave their patient to the mercy of Fate.”

Hirsch Bensef was right. At the time of which we speak, medicine could scarcely be classed among the sciences in Russia, and if we accept the statement of modern travellers, the situation is not much improved at the present day. The scientific doctor of Russia was the feldsher or army surgeon, whose sole schooling was obtained among the soldiery and whose knowledge did not extend beyond dressing wounds and giving an occasional dose of physic. Upon being called to the bedside of a patient, he adopted an air of profound learning, asked a number of unimportant questions, prescribed an herb or drug of doubtful efficacy, and charged an exorbitant fee. The patient usually refused to take the medicine and recovered. It sometimes happened that he took the prescribed dose and perhaps recovered, too. On a level with the feldsher and much preferred by the peasantry, stood the snakharka, a woman, half witch, half quack, who was regarded by the moujiks with the greatest veneration. By means of herbs and charms, she could accomplish any cure short of restoring life to a corpse. “The snakharka and the feldsher represent two very different periods in the history of medical science the magical and the scientific. The Russian peasantry have still many conceptions which belong to the former. The majority of them are now quite willing, under ordinary circumstances, to use the scientific means of healing, but as soon as a violent epidemic breaks out and scientific means prove unequal to the occasion, the old faith revives and recourse is had to magical rites and incantations."

Neither of these systems was regarded favorably by the Hebrews. The feldshers were, by right of their superior knowledge, an arrogant class; and it was suspected that on more than one occasion they had hastened the death of a Jew under treatment, instead of relieving him. The Israelites were equally suspicious of the snakharkas; not because they were intellectually above the superstitions of their times, but because the incantations and spells were invariably pronounced in the name of the Virgin Mary, and no Jew could be reasonably expected to recover under such treatment.

What was to be done for poor Mendel? Hirsch, assisted by suggestions from his wife, cogitated long and earnestly. Suddenly Miriam found a solution of the difficulty.

“Why not send to Rabbi Eleazer at Tchernigof?”

Hirsch gazed at his wife in silent admiration.

“To the bal-shem?” he asked.

“Why not? When Chune Benefski’s little boy was so sick that they thought he was already dead, a parchment blessed by the bal-shem brought him back to life. Is Mendel less to you than your own son would be?”

“God forbid,” said Hirsch; then added, reflectively: “but to-day is Thursday. It will take a day and a half to reach Tchernigof, and the messenger will arrive there just before Shabbes. He cannot start on his return until Saturday evening, and by the time he got back Mendel would be cold in death. No; it is too far!”

“Shaute!” (Nonsense!) ejaculated his wife, who was now warmed up to the subject. “Do you imagine the bal-shem cannot cure at a distance as well as though he were at the patient’s bedside? Lose no time. God did not deliver Mendel out of the hands of the soldiers to let him die in our house.”

One of the most fantastic notions of Cabalistic teaching was that certain persons, possessing a clue to the mysterious powers of nature, were enabled to control its laws, to heal the sick, to compel even the Almighty to do their behests. Such a man, such a miracle worker, was called a bal-shem.

That a bal-shem should thrive and grow fat is a matter of course, for consultations were often paid for in gold. To the wonder-working Rabbi travelled all those who had a petition to bring to the Throne of God the old and decrepit who desired to defraud the grave of a few miserable years; the unfortunate who wished to improve his condition; the oppressed who yearned for relief from a tyrannical taskmaster; the father who prayed for a husband for his fast aging daughter; the sick, the halt, the maim, the malcontent, the egotist all sought the aid, the mediation of the holy man. He refused no one his assistance, declined no one’s proffered gifts.

It was finally decided to send to the bal-shem to effect Mendel’s cure. But time was pressing, Mendel was growing visibly worse and Tchernigof was a long way off!

Hirsch rose to go in search of a messenger.

“Whom will you send?” asked his wife, accompanying him to the door.

“The beadle, Itzig Maier, of course,” rang back Hirsch’s answer, as he strode rapidly down the street.

Let us accompany him to Itzig Maier’s house, situated in the poorest quarter of Kief. In a narrow lane stood a low, dingy, wooden hut, whose boards were rotting with age. The little windows were covered for the most part with greased paper in lieu of the panes that had years ago been destroyed, and scarcely admitted a stray beam of sunlight into the room. The door, which was partially sunken into the earth, suggesting the entrance to a cave, opened into the one room of the house, which served at once as kitchen and dormitory. It was damp, foul and unhealthy, scarcely a fit dwelling-place for the emaciated cat, which sat lazily at the entrance. The floor was innocent of boards or tiles, and was wet after a shower and dry during a drought. The walls were bare of plaster. It was a stronghold of poverty. Misery had left her impress upon everything within that wretched enclosure. Yet here it was that Itzig Maier, his wife, and five children lived and after a fashion thrived. In one respect he was more fortunate than most of his neighbors; his hut possessed the advantage of housing but one family, whereas many places, not a whit more spacious or commodious, furnished a dwelling to three or four. The persécutions which limited the Jewish quarter to certain defined boundaries, the intolerance which prohibited the Jews from possessing or cultivating land, or from acquiring any trade or profession, were to blame for this wretchedness.

A brief review of the past career of our new acquaintance, Itzig Maier, will give us a picture of the unfortunate destiny of thousands of Russian Jews.

Itzig had studied Talmud until he had attained his eighteenth year. But lacking originality he lapsed into a mere automaton. His eighteenth year found him a sallow-visaged, slovenly lad, ignorant of all else but the Holy Law. His anxious and loving parents began to think seriously of his future. Almost nineteen years of age and not yet married! It was preposterous! A schadchen (match-maker) was brought into requisition and a wife obtained for the young man. What mattered it that she was a mere child, unlettered and unfit for the solemn duties of wife and mother? What mattered it that the young people had never met before and had no inclination for each other? “It is not good for man to be alone,” said the parents, and the prospective bride and bridegroom were simply not consulted. The girl’s straggling curls succumbed to the shears; a band of silk, the insignia of married life, was placed over her brow, and the fate of two inexperienced children was irrevocably fixed; they were henceforth man and wife.

Both parents of Itzig Maier died shortly after the nuptials and the young man inherited a small sum of money, the meagre earnings of years, and the miserable hut which had for generations served as the family homestead. For a brief period the couple lived carelessly and contentedly; but, alas! the little store of wealth gradually decreased. Itzig’s fingers, unskilled in manual labor, could not add to it nor prevent its melting away. He knew nothing but Law and Talmud and his chances for advancement were meagre, indeed. After the last rouble had been spent, Itzig sought refuge in the great synagogue, where as beadle he executed any little duties for which the services of a pious man were required sat up with the sick, prayed for the dead, trimmed the lamps and swept the floor of the House of Worship; in return for which he thankfully accepted the gifts of the charitably inclined. His wife, when she was not occupied with the care of her rapidly growing family, cheerfully assisted in swelling the family fund by peddling vegetables and fruit from door to door.

Oh, the misery of such an existence! Slowly and drearily day followed day and time itself moved with leaden soles. There were many such families, many such hovels in Kief; for although thrift and economy, prudence and good management are pre-eminently Jewish qualities, yet they are not infrequently absent and their place usurped by neglect with its attendant misery.

In spite of privations, however, life still possessed a charm for Itzig Maier. At times the wedding of a wealthy Jew, or the funeral of some eminent man, demanded his services and for a week or more money would be plentiful and happiness reign supreme.

Hirsch Bensef entered the hut and found Jentele, Maier’s wife, perspiring over the hearth which occupied one corner of the room. She was preparing a meal of boiled potatoes. A sick child was tossing restlessly in an improvised cradle, which in order to save room was suspended from a hook in the smoke-begrimed ceiling. Several children were squalling in the lane before the house.

“Sholem alechem,” said the woman, as she saw the stranger stoop and enter the door-way, and wiping her hands upon her greasy gown, she offered Hirsch a chair.

“Where is your husband?” asked Hirsch, gasping for breath, for the heat and the malodorous atmosphere were stifling.

“Where should he be but in the synagogue?” said Jentele, as she went to rock the cradle, for the child had begun to cry and fret at the sight of the stranger.

“Is the child sick?” asked Bensef, advancing to the cradle and observing the poor half-starved creature struggling and whining for relief.

“Yes, it is sick. God knows whether it will recover. It is dying of hunger and thirst and I have no money to buy it medicines or nourishment.”

“Does your husband earn nothing?”

“Very little. There have been no funerals and no weddings for several months.”

“Can you not earn anything?”

“How can I? I must cook for my little ones and watch my ailing child.”

“Are your children of no service to you?”

“My oldest girl, Beile, is but seven years old. She does all she can to help me, but it is not much,” answered Jentele, irritably.

Hirsch sighed heavily and drawing out his purse, he placed a gold coin in the woman’s hand.

“Here, take this,” he said, “and provide for the child.” He thought of Mendel at home and tears almost blinded him. “Carry the boy out into the air; this atmosphere is enough to kill a healthy person. Well, God be with you!” and Hirsch hurriedly left the the house.

He found the man he was seeking at the synagogue. Poverty and privation, hunger and care, had undertaken the duties of time and had converted this person into a decrepit ruin while yet in the prime of life.

Without unnecessary delay, for great was the need of haste, Hirsch unfolded his plans, and Itzig, in consideration of a sum of money, consented to undertake the journey at once. The money, destined as a gift to the bal-shem, was securely strapped about his waist, and arrangements were made with a moujik, who was going part of the way, to carry Itzig on his wagon.

“Get there as soon as possible, and by all means before Shabbes!” were Bensef’s parting words.

In the meantime not a little sympathy was manifested for the unfortunate lad. Bensef’s house was crowded during the entire day. Every visitor brought a slight token of love a cake, a cup of jelly, a leg of a chicken; but Mendel could eat nothing and the good things remained untouched. There was no lack of advice as to the boy’s treatment. Everyone had a recipe or a drug to offer, all of which Miriam wisely refused to administer. There was at one time quite a serious dispute in the room adjoining the sick-chamber. Hinka Kierson, a stout, red-faced matron, asserted that cold applications were most efficacious in fevers of this nature, while Chune Benefski, whose son had had a similar attack, and who was therefore qualified to speak upon the subject, insisted that cold applications meant instant death, and that nothing could relieve the boy but a hot bath. Miriam quieted the disputants by promising to try both remedies. To her credit be it said, she applied neither, but pinned her entire faith upon the coming remedy of the bal-shem.

Friday noon came but it brought no improvement. He continued delirious and his mind dwelt upon his recent trials, at one moment struggling against unseen enemies and the next calling piteously upon his brother Jacob.

Hirsch and Miriam could witness his suffering no longer, but went to their own room and gave free vent to the tears which would not be repressed.

“Oh, if the answer from the Rabbi were but here,” sighed Miriam.

“Itzig will have just arrived in Tchernigof,” said her husband, despondingly. “We can expect no answer until Monday morning.”

“And must we sit helpless in the meantime?” sobbed Miriam, through her tears.

The door opened and a woman living in the neighborhood entered to inquire after the patient.

“See, Miriam,” she said, “when I was feverish last year after my confinement, a snakharka gave me this bark with which to make a tea. I used a part of it and you remember how quickly I recovered. Here is all I have left. Try it on your boy; it can’t hurt him and with God’s help it will cure him.”

Yes, Miriam remembered how ill her neighbor had been and how rapid had been her convalescence. She took the bark and examined it curiously, made the tea and administered a portion without any visible effect.

“Continue to give it to him regularly until it is all gone,” said the neighbor, and she went home to prepare for the Sabbath.

Miriam, too, had her house to put in order and to prepare the table for the following day; but for the first time the gold and silver utensils, the snow-white linen the luxurious essentials of the Sabbath table failed to give her pleasure. What did all her wealth avail her if Mendel must die! Her husband sat apathetically at the boy’s bedside, watching his flushed face and listening to his delirious raving. The end seemed near. The boy asked for drink and Miriam gave him more of the tea.

Five o’clock sounded from the tower of a near-by church and Hirsch arose to dress for the house of prayer. Shabbes must not be neglected, happen what may. Suddenly there was an unusual commotion in the narrow lane in which stood Bensef’s house. The door was hastily thrown open and in rushed Itzig, the messenger to Tchernigof, followed by a dozen excited, gesticulating friends.

Bensef ran to meet them, but when he saw his messenger already returned his countenance fell.

“For God’s sake, what is the matter? Why are you not in Tchernigof?” he said.

“I was,” retorted Itzig, “but I have come back. Here,” he continued, opening a bag about his neck and carefully drawing therefrom a small piece of parchment covered with hieroglyphics, “put this under the boy’s tongue and he will recover!”

“But what is this paper?” asked Hirsch, suspiciously.

“It is from the bal-shem. Don’t ask so many questions, but do as I tell you! Put it under the boy’s tongue before the Sabbath or it will be of no avail!”

Hirsch looked from Itzig to the ever-increasing crowd that was peering in through the open door. Then he gazed at the parchment. It was about two inches square and covered with mystic signs which none understood, but the power of which none doubted. In the margin was written in Hebrew, “In the name of the Lord Rabbi Eleazer.”

There was no time for idle curiosity. Hirsch ran into the patient’s presence with the precious talisman and placed it under the boy’s tongue.

“There, my child,” he whispered; “the bal-shem sends you this. By to-morrow you will be cured.”

The boy, whose fever appeared already broken, opened his eyes and, looking gratefully at Hirsch, answered:

“Yes, dear uncle, I shall soon be well,” and fell into a deep sleep.

Hirsch closed the door softly and went out to his friends. The excitement was intense and the crowd was steadily growing, for the news had spread that Itzig Maier had been to Tchernigof and back in less than two days.

“Tell us about it, Itzig,” they clamored. “How is it possible that you could do it?” But Itzig waved them back and not until Hirsch Bensef came out from the sick chamber did he deign to speak. Then his tongue became loosened, and to the awe and amazement of his listeners he related his wonderful adventures. He told them that, having left the wagon half-way to Tchernigof, he had walked the rest of the distance, reaching his destination that very morning at eleven o’clock. The holy man, being advised by mysterious power of his expected arrival, awaited him at the door and said: “Itzig, thou hast come about a sick boy at Kief.” The bal-shem then gave him a parchment already written, and told him to return home at once and apply the remedy before Shabbes, otherwise the spell would lose its efficacy.

“Then,” continued the messenger, “I said, ’Rabbi, this is Friday noon; it takes almost a day and a half to reach Kief. How can I get there by Shabbes?’ Then he answered, ’Thinkest thou that I possess the power to cure a dying man and not to send thee home before the Sabbath? Begin thy journey at once and on foot and thou shalt be in Kief before night.’ Then I gave him the present I had brought and started out upon my homeward journey. I appeared to fly. It seemed as though I was suspended in the air, and trees, fields and villages passed me in rapid succession. This continued until about a half hour ago, when I suddenly found myself before Kief and at once hastened here with the parchment.”

This incredible story produced different effects upon the auditors present.

“It is wonderful,” said one. “The bal-shem knows the mysteries of God.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” shouted another; “such things are impossible.”

“But we have proof of it before us,” cried a third. “Itzig could not have returned by natural means.”

Then a number of the men related similar occurrences for which they could vouch, or which had taken place in the experience of their parents, and the gathering broke up into little groups, each gesticulating, relating or explaining. The excitement was indescribable.

Bensef laid his hand upon Itzig’s shoulder and led him aside.

“Look at me, Itzig,” he commanded. “I want to know the truth. Is what you have just related exactly true.”

“To be sure it is. If you doubt it, go to the bal-shem and ask him yourself.”

“Do you swear by ” Then checking himself, Hirsch muttered: “We will see. If the boy recovers, I will believe you.”

When Itzig arrived at the synagogue that evening, he was the cynosure of all eyes, and it is safe to say that there was not in Kief a Jewish household in which the wonderful story was not repeated and commented upon.

Mendel recovered with marvellous rapidity. Whether his improvement was due to the Peruvian bark which the kind-hearted neighbor had brought, or to the power of the Cabalistic writing, or to the psychological influence of faith in the bal-shem’s power, it is not for us to decide, but certain it is that Rabbi Eleazer received full credit for the cure and his already great reputation spread through Russia.

The fact that Itzig, whose poverty had been notorious, now occasionally indulged in expenditures requiring the outlay of considerable money, caused a rumor to spread that the worthy messenger had gone no further than the village of Navrack, where he himself prepared the parchment and then returned with the wonderful story of his trip through the air and with his fortune augmented to the extent of Bensef’s present to the Rabbi. Envious people were not wanting who gave ear to this unkind rumor and even helped to spread it. But the fact that Mendel had been snatched from the jaws of death was sufficient vindication for Itzig, who for a long time enjoyed great honors at Kief.