We took farewell of him in the old Jewish fashion—we begged him for forgiveness.
And he had to excuse so much in us. We had loved him—but we had not always understood him, and those who loved most had hurt him most.
We pleaded forgiveness for all those abroad, and truly he left us no grudge. Then we wept, the reservior of our tears yielded, and we opened the sluice.
At a soft, spoken command the students stood again as stiff as military sentinels.
They bore themselves bravely, like ordered mutes, till little Pauline, led by her aunt, came to say farewell—then some men sobbed, but stood erect.
My friend, we learnt much from you—bearing, deportment and a stiff spine.
When his wife came to take her last farewell we left the room. Married folks have much to say to each other which others should not hear.
And there was no end to the grief. His mother, too, caressed the coffin for the last time.
The coffin was then draped with the flag of Zion—his weapon, the shield of David, reposed on his broken heart—so began the death's parade.
The tears of a whole nation overfilled our cup, which received that day a double measure of woe, during the next few hours.
The tenseness increased every minute. The students' corps were released, replaced by the Actions Comite.
And the hour stood not still.
A moment came when the Cantor raised his voice in tones of grief, there came the moment when the coffin was raised.
And then occurred something which none of us ever thought to outlive—Theodor Herzl, the dead leader of his people, was borne down the steps of his house, where thousands of orphaned heart awaited him.