was not skim milk. The
young Jewess ate as if she were very faint as well as weary.

"Then hast thou come here all the way from Lincoln?" inquired Margaret
when the bowl was emptied.

"If it please my Damsel, no. I had returned home only two days before
the riot."

"Is thy mother living?" asked Margaret abruptly.

"Yes. She abode at Lincoln with my grandfather. He is very old, and
will not in likelihood live long. When he dies, my mother will come
back to us."

"Do go to bed, Belasez. Thou canst scarcely hold thine head up, nor
thine eyes open," said Margaret compassionately: and Belasez accepted
the invitation with thanks. Doucebelle went with her, and silently
noticed two facts: that Belasez stood for a few minutes in silent
prayer, with her face turned to the wall, before she offered to undress;
and that she was fast asleep almost as soon as her head had touched the
pillow.

Doucebelle stood still and looked at the sleeping girl. Why was it so
wicked to be a Jew? Had Belasez been a Christian of noble birth, or
even of mean extraction, she would have been regarded as an ornament of
any Court in Christendom. Some nobleman or knight would very soon have
found that lovely face, and her refined and dignified manners were fit
for any lady in the land. Why must she be regarded as despicable, and
treated with abuse and loathing, merely because she had been born a
Jewess? Of course Doucebelle knew the traditionary reason--because the
Jews had crucified Christ. But Belasez had not been one of them. Why
must she bear the shame of others' sins? Did none of my ancestors,
thought Doucebelle, ever do some wicked deed? Yet people do not despise
me on that account. Why do they scorn her?

Belasez stirred in her sleep, and one or two broken words dropped from
her unconscious lips. Greatly interested, and a little startled,
Doucebelle bent over her. But she could make out nothing connected from
the indistinct utterances. It sounded as if Belasez were dreaming about
somebody whose face she could not see. "Hid faces," Doucebelle heard
her murmur. It was probably, she thought, some reminiscence connected
with the tumults which had brought her to seek shelter at the Castle.
Doucebelle drew the coverlet higher over the weary sleeper, and went to
seek rest in her own bed.

CHAPTER FIVE.

NOT WISELY.

"I love but one, and only one,--
O Damon, thou art he;
Love thou but one, and only one,
And