Maimonidean ideal--the
attainment of Perfection? Perpending which problem, the philosopher
fell deliciously asleep.

Late, very late, the next morning he dragged himself from his snug
cocoon, and called, in response to a summons, upon his benefactor.

"Well, and how do you like your lodging?" said the gentle Rabbi.

Maimon burst into tears. "I have slept in a bed!" he sobbed, "I have
slept in a bed!"

Two days later, clad--out of the Rabbitzin's housekeeping money--in
full rabbinical vestments, with clean linen beneath, the metamorphosed
Maimon, cheerful of countenance, and godly of mien, presented himself
at the poorhouse, where the tailor and his wife, as well as his whilom
mate--all of them acquainted with his good fortune--expected him with
impatience. The sight of him transported them. The poor mother took
her babe in her arms, and with tears in her eyes begged the Rabbi's
blessings; the beggar besought his forgiveness for his rough
treatment, and asked for an alms.

Maimon gave the little one his blessing, and the _Schnorrer_ all he
had in his pocket, and went back deeply affected.

Meantime his fame had spread: all the scholars of the town came to see
and chop theology with this illustrious travelling Rabbi. He became a
tutor in a wealthy family: his learning was accounted superhuman, and
he himself almost divine. A doubt he expressed as to the healthiness
of a consumptive-looking child brought him at her death the honors of
a prophet. Disavowal was useless: a new prophet had arisen in Israel.

And so two happy years passed--honorably enough, unless the
philosopher's forgetfulness of his family be counted against him. But
little by little his restless brain and body began to weary of these
superstitious surroundings.

It began to leak out that he was a heretic: his rare appearances in
the synagogue were noted; daring sayings of his were darkly whispered;
Persecution looked to its weapons.

Maimon's recklessness was whetted in its turn. At the entrance to the
Common Hall in Posen there had been, from time immemorial, a stag-horn
fixed into the wall, and an equally immemorial belief among the Jews
that whoso touched it died on the spot. A score of stories in proof
were hurled at the scoffing Maimon. And so, passing the stag-horn one
day, he cried to his companions: "You Posen fools, do you think that
any one who touches this horn dies on the spot? See, I dare to touch
it."

Their eyes, dilating with h