and shrank from the moonlight, which lay exceedingly bright over the whole south front, and along a part of the street. The mother’s will was strong. Casting one look back and up to the windows on the west side, she stepped out into the light, drawing Tirzah after her; and the extent of their affliction was then to be seen—on their lips and cheeks, in their bleared eyes, in their cracked hands; especially in the long, snaky locks, stiff with loathsome ichor, and, like their eyebrows, ghastly white. Nor was it possible to have told which was mother, which daughter; both alike seemed witch-like old.
"Hist!" said the mother. "There is some one lying upon the step—a man. Let us go round him."
They crossed to the opposite side of the street quickly, and, in the shade there, moved on till before the gate, where they stopped.
"He is asleep, Tirzah!"
The man was very still.
"Stay here, and I will try the gate."
So saying, the mother stole noiselessly across, and ventured to touch the wicket; she never knew if it yielded, for that moment the man sighed, and, turning restlessly, shifted the handkerchief on his head in such manner that the face was left upturned and fair in the broad moonlight. She looked down at it and started; then looked again, stooping a little, and arose and clasped her hands and raised her eyes to heaven in mute appeal. An instant so, and she ran back to Tirzah.
"As the Lord liveth, the man is my son—thy brother!" she said, in an awe-inspiring whisper.
"My brother?—Judah?"
The mother caught her hand eagerly.
"Come!" she said, in the same enforced whisper, "let us look at him together—once more—only once—then help thou thy servants, Lord!"
They crossed the street hand in hand ghostly-quick, ghostly-still. When their shadows fell upon him, they stopped. One of his hands was lying out upon the step palm up. Tirzah fell upon her knees, and would have kissed it; but the mother drew her back.
