“Now, by the sufferings of my patient race!  I will do a thing unlike myself, to prove this testimony a libel.  Here is a child more homeless than this carpenter, Joseph’s, without the false pretence of coming of David’s line.  Its mother tainted with negro blood, like the slaves I have imported.  Its father the obscurest preacher of his sect.  I will rob the shark and the crab of a repast.  It shall be my child and a Hebrew.  Yea, if I can make it so, a Rabbi of Israel!”

Issachar looked again at the cross.  Day was breaking in the window behind it, and the rich light of its gems was obscurer, but its form and proportions seemed to have expanded—­perhaps because he had worn his eyes reading by the firelight—­and the outstretched figure looked large as humanity, and the cross lofty and real, as that which it was made to commemorate.  He hid it beneath his garment, and walked forth into the gray dawn of Christmas.  One star remained in mid-heaven, whiter than the day.  It poised over the hovel of the dead like something new-born in the sky, and unacquainted with its fellow orbs.

“Christmas gift!” shouted a party of lads and women, rushing upon the Jew.  “Christmas gift!  You are caught, Issachar.  Give us a present, old miser!”

It was the custom in that old settled country that whoever should be earliest up, and say “Christmas gift!” to others, should receive some little token in farthings or kind.

“Bah!” answered the Jew.  “Look in yonder, where the best of your religion lie, perished by your inhumanity, and behold your Christmas gift to them!”

There, where no friendly feet but those of negroes and slaves had entered for months, the strengthening morning showed a young wife, almost white, and the most beautiful of her type, with comely features, and eyes and hair that the proudest white beauty might envy.  The gauntness of death had scarcely diminished those charms which had brought the pride of the world’s esteem and the prudence of religion to her feet, and lifted her to virtuous matrimony, only to banish her lover from the hearthstones of his race and make them both outcasts, the poorest of the creatures of God, even on Chincoteague.  A slight sense of self-accusation touched the bystanders.

“He was a good preacher,” said one, “and I was converted under him.  He baptized my children.  That he should have married a darkey!”

“She was a pious girl,” added another, “and from her youth up was in temptation, which she resisted, like a white woman.  That she should have ruined this preacher!”

“He was a poet,” said a third. “’Peared like as if he believed every thing he preached.  But, my sakes! we can’t have sich things in our church.”

“She loved him, too, the hussy!” exclaimed a fourth.  “She would have been his slave if he had asked her.  Oh! what misery she felt when she knew that his passion for her was starving him, body and soul!”