on of the miraculous spread of the
Idea, once it had got into the dominant language of the world.

In his gratitude to little Sampson he plied him with fresh whisky; in
his excitement he drew the paper-covered book from his pocket, and
insisted that the journalist must translate the first page then and
there, as a hansel. By the time it was done it was near eleven
o'clock. Vaguely the Red Beadle felt that it was too late to return to
Zussmann's to-night. Besides, he was liking little Sampson very much.
They did not separate till the restaurant closed at midnight.

Quite drunk, the Red Beadle staggered towards Zussmann's house. He
held the page of the translation tightly in his hand. The Hebrew
original he had forgotten on the restaurant table, but he knew in some
troubled nightmare way that Zussmann and Hulda must see that paper at
once, that he had been charged to deliver it safely, and must die
sooner than disobey.

The fog had lifted, but the heaps of snow were a terrible hindrance to
his erratic progression. The cold air and the shock of a fall lessened
his inebriety, but the imperative impulse of his imaginary mission
still hypnotized him. It was past one before he reached the tall
house. He did not think it at all curious that the great outer portals
should be open; nor, though he saw the milk-cart at the door, and
noted Cohen's uncomfortable look, did he remember that he had
discovered the milk-purveyor nocturnally infringing the Sabbath. He
stumbled up the stairs and knocked at the garret door, through the
chinks of which light streamed. The thought of Hulda smote him almost
sober. Zussmann's face, when the door opened, restored him completely
to his senses. It was years older.

"She is not dead?" the visitor whispered hoarsely.

"She is dying, I fear--she cannot rouse herself." Zussmann's voice
broke in a sob.

"But she must not die--I bring great news--_The Flag of Judah_ has
read your book--it will translate it into English--it will print it in
its own paper--and then it will make a book of it for you. See, here
is the beginning!"

"Into English!" breathed Zussmann, taking the little journalist's
scrawl. His whole face grew crimson, his eye shone as with madness.
"Hulda! Hulda!" he cried, "the Idea works! God be thanked! English!
Through the world! Hulda! Hulda!" He was bending over her, raising her
head.

She opened her eyes.

"Hulda! the Idea wins. The book is coming out in English. The great
E