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Updated: June 11, 2025
In general, I have thought it right to follow Wade's narrative, which appears to me by far the most authentic, if not the only authentic account of this important transaction. It is imperfect, but its imperfection arises from the narrator's omitting all those circumstances of which he was not an eye-witness, and the greater credit is on that very account due to him for those which he relates.
She was seldom seen; but sometimes, when the lounging exiles would be sitting in their afternoon circle under the eaves, and some old man would tell his tale of fire and blood and capture and escape, and the heads would lean forward from the chair-backs and a great stillness would follow the ending of the story, old M. D'Hemecourt would all at once speak up and say, laying his hands upon the narrator's knee, "Comrade, your throat is dry, here are fresh limes; let my dear child herself come and mix you a lemonade."
During his recital, a cold perspiration covered the narrator's countenance. His two listeners shuddered with horror. After a momentary pause, he continued: "I ought perhaps to spare you, as well as myself, other sad details."
"Whether it was the indian maid's skill in medicine, that prevailed over the disease at last, or her devoted kindness, it might be difficult to determine; probably, Bernard thought the latter; for though she was, as my narrator's tradition says, 'an uncouth maiden to look upon, he declared his love to her, and asked her hand of her father.
She, however, by no means obeyed her husband's mandate without resistance, and, at the recollection of the conflict which now occurred between the pair, in which she raged like a tigress, the narrator's cheeks crimsoned.
The picturesqueness of the story, the piquancy of the anecdote, is generally in inverse proportion to the narrator's knowledge of the matter in question. In short, truth is only too often most unconscionably sacrificed to effect.
Very possibly his own life would show but coarse and poor against the chaste, heroic portraits he had drawn. He had the dramatic faculty: for the moment he was what he related that was all. Our vigilant duenna had gradually risen to a sitting posture, and drawn nearer and nearer, and as the narrator's voice sank into silence she said with effusion, "Well, you are a good man, I guess."
The memory of these days has not faded yet, for both are still kept as fasts by the synagogue. We look with the narrator's eye at the deliberate massing of the immense besieging force drawing its coils round the doomed city, like a net round a deer, and mark with him the piling of the mounds, and the erection on them of siege-towers. We hear of no active siege operations till the final assault.
To use the narrator's own words occasionally more forcible than elegant: "You might have heard him two blocks off, squattering and spluttering over the shingles." Those miserable machines, when put to the proof, made more noise than even we had imputed to them.
By various reiterated feminine interrogation concerning the masculine destination whither, the place where, the time at which, the duration for which, the object with which in the case of temporary absences, projected or effected. What moved visibly above the listener's and the narrator's invisible thoughts?
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