She was therefore astonished when her grandfather, after listening to a few sentences, sat down, and entered into a lengthy conversation.  And her curiosity was also aroused; for, though Hyde had often been in the store, she had never hitherto seen him in such a sober mood, it was also remarkable that on the sabbath her grandfather should receive papers, and a ring which she watched Hyde take from his finger; and there was, beside, a solemn, a final air about the transaction which gave her the feeling of some anticipated tragedy.

When at last they rose, Hyde extended his hand.  “Cohen,” he said, “few men would have been as generous and, at this hour, as considerate as you.  I have judged from tradition, and misjudged you.  Whether we meet again or not, we part as friends.”

“You have settled all things as a gentleman, Captain.  May my white hairs say a word to your heart this hour?” Hyde bowed; and he continued, in a voice of serious benignity:  “The words of the Holy One are to be regarded, and not the words of men.  Men call that ‘honour’ which He will call murder.  What excuse is there in your lips if you go this night into His presence?”

There was no excuse in Hyde’s lips, even for his mortal interrogator.  He merely bowed again, and slipped through the partially opened door into the busy street.  Then Cohen put clean linen upon his head and arm, and went and stood with his face to the east, and recited, in low, rhythmical sentences, the prayer called the “Assault.”  Miriam sat quiet during his devotion but, when he returned to his place, she asked him plainly, “What murder is there to be, grandfather?”

“It is a duel between Captain Hyde and another.  It shall be called murder at the last.”

“The other, who is he?”

“The young man Semple.”

“I am sorry.  He is a courteous young man.  I have heard you say so.  I have heard you speak well of him.”

“O Miriam, what sin and sorrow thy sex ever bring to those who love it!  There are two young lives to be put in death peril for the smile of a woman,—­a very girl she is.”

“Do I know her, grandfather?”

“She passes here often.  The daughter of Van Heemskirk,—­the little fair one, the child.”

“Oh, but now I am twice sorry!  She has smiled at me often.  We have even spoken.  The good old man, her father, will die; and her brother, he was always like a watch-dog at her side.”

“But not the angels in heaven can watch a woman.  For a lover, be he good or bad, she will put heaven behind her back, and stand on the brink of perdition.  Miriam, if thou should deceive me,—­as thy mother did,—­God of Israel, may I not know it!”

“Though I die, I will not deceive you, grandfather.”

“The Holy One hears thee, Miriam.  Let Him be between us.”