The old Alroy blood flows in his veins, a stiff-necked
race. When I was a youth, his grandsire was my friend; I had some
fancies then myself. Dreams, dreams! we have fallen on evil days, and
yet we prosper. I have lived long enough to feel that a rich caravan,
laden with the shawls of India and the stuffs of Samarcand, if not
exactly like dancing before the ark, is still a goodly sight. And our
hard-hearted rulers, with all their pride, can they subsist without us?
Still we wax rich. I have lived to see the haughty Caliph sink into a
slave viler far than Israel. And the victorious and voluptuous Seljuks,
even now they tremble at the dim mention of the distant name of Arslan.
Yet I, Bostenay, and the frail remnant of our scattered tribes, still
we exist, and still, thanks to our God! we prosper. But the age of power
has passed; it is by prudence now that we must flourish. The gibe and
jest, the curse, perchance the blow, Israel now must bear, and with a
calm or even smiling visage. What then? For every gibe and jest, for
every curse, I'll have a dirhem; and for every blow, let him look to it
who is my debtor, or wills to be so. But see, he comes, my nephew! His
grandsire was my friend. Methinks I look upon him now: the same Alroy
that was the partner of my boyish hours.
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