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Old Kierson thenceforth went daily to the police headquarters, endeavoring in vain to obtain information about his son. He found no one that could enlighten him as to his present condition or future fate, and he trudged homeward, feeling daily more sick at heart, more depressed in spirit. At the end of a week, Kathinka received a second letter from her persecutor.
The poor Israelites feared to stir from their homes; they sat in prayer during the entire day and fasted as on the Day of Atonement. Towards night, the door of Rabbi Winenki's house was suddenly thrown open, and Joseph Kierson, haggard and travel-stained, entered. "What are you doing here?" ejaculated both the Rabbi and Kathinka, in a breath. "Has there been a riot in Berditchef?" queried Mendel.
For the preservation of order, however, he advocated the arrest of the offender and Kierson was taken into custody. Loris' course was not dictated by caprice. If his august father knew that he had sought an alliance with a daughter of the despised Hebrew race, he would vent his wrath upon Loris' head for compromising the honor of the noble family of Drentell.
"Well, my child; who has stolen your heart?" asked the Rabbi, kindly. "Father, I love Joseph Kierson," said Kathinka, faintly, hiding her blushing face upon the Rabbi's shoulder. "What, my former pupil?" asked the Rabbi, astonished. "I must have been blind not to have observed it. And does he love you?" "I think he does," she archly answered. "But Joseph is poor," returned her father.
"Yes, it was a marvellous escape from the soldiers; Adonai be praised for it!" Old Kierson had a story of privation and suffering to relate, events which carried his hearers back to the days of Nicholas, the Iron Czar, and they smiled to think that those days were gone, never to return.
Meanwhile, the Israelites were not idle. Convinced that Kierson had done nothing but his duty, they drew up a petition to the Governor, pleading for mercy. Rabbi Mendel himself carried the document to the palace, trusting to supplement the petition with his own eloquence. Alas! the time when Mendel Winenki was a power in the Governor's house had long since passed.
A letter from Kathinka Kierson to her father: JULY 1, 1887. DEAR FATHER: We grieved and rejoiced on the receipt of your last letter: grieved that the Jews of Russia are still smarting under the lash of persecution, that outbreaks of intolerance still continue; and we rejoice to learn that dear mother has almost entirely recovered her reason.
"We seek Joseph Kierson," said one of the soldiers. "I am he," answered the young man, with as much firmness as he could command. "I arrest you in the name of his majesty the Czar," continued the officer, placing a heavy hand upon the poor lad's shoulder. "Of what am I accused?" asked Joseph. "I do not know. Perhaps the warden of the prison can tell you."
Joseph Kierson was a fine manly fellow of twenty-two, not particularly handsome, but possessing what in Kathinka's eyes outweighed mere personal appearance, a fine mind, great courage and indomitable zeal. His youth had been uneventful. His father was a hard-working butcher, who in spite of his industry found it difficult to provide food for his family of half-a-dozen.
"If I should meet him again and he should again force his attentions upon me, what could I do?" sighed Kathinka, nervously. "For the present do not venture out unless with me or Joseph. We must inform Kierson of this matter at once. He has doubtless frequent opportunities of seeing this young Count and can keep his eyes on him.
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