The hermit was agile. He vaulted to the dais, dodged the lectern, and seized the scholar’s arm. ‘What madness—’ Benjamin kneaded the arm while he stared hopefully into the scholar’s eyes. His face clouded. The glow died. He dropped the arm. A great keening sigh came from the dry old lungs as hope vanished. The eternally knowing smirk of the Old Jew of the Mountain returned to his face. He turned to the community, spread his hands, shrugged eloquently. ‘It’s still not Him,’ he told them sourly, then hobbled away.
