Kenkenes did not marvel and was not perplexed. The miracles no longer
amazed him, but he had not become indifferent or unthankful. Each
forward step he took was a declaration of faith; the thrill of relief
in his veins, a psalm of thanksgiving. The stones were as many and as
sharp, the way as untender, and the mighty tempest strove against him
as powerfully, but he followed the ray, trusting it implicitly.
Night fell unnoticed for it merged with the supernatural darkness of
the day.
At the summit of the slope which led down to the water's edge, he
paused. Below him was a gentle declivity ending to the south in
darkness. There was not a glimmer of radiance on the sea. Far to the
east could be heard the sound of infuriated surges, storming the rocks,
but dense darkness shrouded all the distance. Only the beach directly
under him was alight. The shadows cast were blacker than daylight
shadows, and the radiance had a touch of gold, which gilded everything
beneath it. The poorest object was enriched, the gaudiest subdued.
Had the number of Israel been ten thousand or even a hundred thousand,
Kenkenes might have had some conception of the multitude. The millions
massed below him on the sand were not to be looked on except as a vast
unit.
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