This parleying had taken place on the border; the
troops were about to force the passes on the following day.
About an hour before sunset, on the very same day that Issachar, the son
of Selim, had taken more than one Cabala, some horsemen, in disorder,
were observed from the walls by the inhabitants of Aleppo, galloping
over the plain. They were soon recognised as the cavalry of the Pasha,
the irregular heralds, it was presumed, of a triumph achieved. Hillel
Besso, covered with sweat and dust, was among those who thus early
arrived. He hastened at a rapid pace through the suburb of the city,
scattering random phrases to those who inquired after intelligence as he
passed, until he reached the courtyard of his own house.
''Tis well,' he observed, as he closed the gate. 'A battle is a fine
thing, but, for my part, I am not sorry to find myself at home.'
'What is that?' inquired Adam Besso, as a noise reached his ear.
''Tis the letter of the first Cabala,' replied Issachar, the son of
Selim.
'Uncle, it is I,' said Hillel, advancing.
'Speak,' said Adam Besso, in an agitated voice; 'my sight is dark.'
'Alas, I am alone!' said Hillel.
'Bury me in Jehoshaphat,' murmured Besso, as he sank back.
'But, my uncle, there is hope.
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