LITMIR.BIZ

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Basil had heard about the Jewish people and their strange faith had interested him, but this talk about angels transcended everything he had been told before. If there was only one God, as the Jews said, it was easy to think that He would need an army of assistants to carry out His orders. Basil found himself ready to accept the existence of these beautiful, winged creatures.

      “Agnes, there are doors which must be opened for me,” he said earnestly. “Do you think your Mefathiel would help me?”

      “Oh yes. Of course he would help you. He can open prisons. He can break down the sides of mountains. If you pray to him and he listens, he will open any door you want. Even”—she looked back at the entrance to the room before finishing—“even the door of this house.”

      Basil said to her: “Agnes, I shall pray to Mefathiel every night. Perhaps there are others who could help me also. Is there an angel of memory?”

      She nodded quickly, delighted that she was able to be of help to him. “Yes, that is Zachriel. He is a very great angel, because if people did not remember they would not remain true to the one God. The most important thing of all is to remember God and the Laws, and so Zachriel sits close to Jehovah. My mother said he is always at God’s right hand.”

      “Perhaps he would be too busy to listen if I prayed to him.”

      There seemed to be a doubt in her mind on this point. “He is a very busy angel,” she conceded. “But you can try.”

      “You had better go now,” he said, aware that time had been passing quickly. “The master’s wife will be angry because we have been talking.”

      “She will twist my arm to make me tell her what was said. But I won’t!” The child gave her head a defiant toss. “She has done it often, but I have never given in. She won’t get anything out of me.”

      That night, following the instructions the slave girl had given him before leaving, Basil went to the open window and sank down on his knees. He turned his eyes in the direction of the stars.

      “O Mefathiel,” he said, “I have no right to speak to you because you are an angel of the Jews and I am not a Jew. I am Greek. Because I am Greek you may not hear my voice. But if you do hear me, most kind of angels, I want to tell you that a door must be opened for me if I am not to fall into the hands of my worst enemy. The door must be opened for me at once or it will be too late. If you look down and see me as I am, you will think me unworthy of your help. But remember this, O Mefathiel: I am a slave and I wear the clothes in which I came two years ago. I have worn nothing else since, and you will think me no better than a beggar at the city gate. Am I worth saving? you may ask, O generous Opener of Doors. I do not know. All I can tell you is that I have a certain gift for making things with my hands, and this I promise: If the doors of my prison swing open, I shall work very hard and I shall always strive to keep this gift from tarnish.

      “And thou, O Zachriel,” he went on, “of whose greatness I have just been told, do this much for a man who has never prayed to thee before. Never let me forget, Angel of Memory, those who have been kind to me and those who have taken great risks to be of help when I needed help. This I beg of you, as I do not want to be guilty of ingratitude, which is a great fault but a very easy one to commit.”

      The rest of his prayer was delivered with an intensity that told how deeply he felt.

      “I beg that my memory will remain so clear that I shall forget none of the wrongs which have been done me. Keep the thought of my misfortunes so fresh in my mind that I may strive to undo the ill that has been done to me and to those who depended on me. Let my memory feed my resolution to be avenged on my enemies when the right day comes. This I beg of thee, Zachriel, Angel of Memory.”

      2

      It was three nights later. Sosthene and his wife had climbed to their tiny rooftop, where a hint of breeze, tainted with the smells of the city, reached them over the huddle of parapets. It was so dark when the caller came, asking for the master of the house, that Agnes could see nothing of him, save that he was old and had a very long beard.

      “You want the master?” she repeated. “Is it a matter to be talked over with him?”

      “Yes. It is a matter to be talked over.”

      “Is there, perhaps, something to be decided?”

      The visitor smiled, amused at her insistence. “There is something to be decided.”

      “Then,” declared the girl, “I had better ask the mistress to come down too. When there is something to be decided, she does the deciding.”

      The old man laughed at this and patted her head. “You are bright, my child. I can see you will be one to do the deciding yourself when you grow up and become a woman.”

      Agnes shook her head and sighed. “Oh no. I am not well and I am not going to grow up.”

      The visitor moved closer to her so that he could see her face by the light of the small lamp she was carrying. He studied her carefully and with an air as sad as her own. “It is true, my child, that you are not well,” he said. “You will not get better if you continue to live in a place as close and hot as this. You need much fresh air and rest and good food. And you need loving care, my good little child.”

      Agnes answered simply and without any intention of arousing his sympathies further, “I am a slave. A slave does not have these things. I must live here with my master and mistress.”

      The old man’s manner became even more depressed. “In this life there are many things which are wrong, and of them, I believe, slavery is the worst. Someday, my child, there will be a great change in the world. A shining figure will come down out of the sky and after that there will be no more wickedness or slavery or bodily ills. I hope it will come to pass soon; even in time to save you from—from all the troubles I foresee.”

      Eulalia led the way down the outside stairs, followed by a grumbling Sosthene. “Well, and what is it you want?” she demanded. “Is there something you wish to buy?”

      The visitor hesitated. “Yes,” he said finally. “I think I may tell you there is something I want to buy. But we must not discuss it here. I feel there are ears in the darkness and that curiosity presses about us as closely as the heat of the night.”

      “Come inside,” said Eulalia, all graciousness now that she saw the possibility of a sale.

      She led the way into the shop on the ground floor and lighted a lamp suspended from the ceiling. By the limited illumination thus afforded it could be seen that the visitor was well advanced in years. He had a kind and understanding eye but with enough of an air of resolution to make it clear that he was not one to be imposed upon. For his part, he gave a quick glance about the small shop, noting the cheapness of most of the things for sale, the oriental masks, the daggers and bronze swords, the incense lamps, the jewel boxes from the desert country. Then he allowed his eyes to rest on the owner and his wife, studying them with great care.

      “I must ask some questions,” he said. “You have in your household one Basil, a worker in silver and gold. I understand he made himself, without aid or suggestion, a figure of Athena, which was sold to the Greek banker Jabez, who is a collector of works of art. This is true?”

      Sosthene was on the point of answering, but his wife’s sharp elbow nudged him into silence. “Yes,” she said. “He is a slave and our property. He made the figure.”

      “And the silver vase with the head of Theseus in relief, which one of the magistrates in the city is fortunate enough to possess?”

      “That also was of his fashioning.”

      “And the plaque with moonstones, which a Jewish merchant bought from you as a gift for his wife?”

      Eulalia nodded. “He designed the plaque. Is there something you want him to make for you? We can promise that you will be more than satisfied.”

      The

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