olently with his gasping breath, that his stout leathern apron rose
and fell.

"Be calm, Adam, be calm," said the monk, soothingly answering his
companion's broken words. "All shall be well, all shall be well. Sit
down, man, and trust me. What is the terrible debt of gratitude you owe
the doctor?"

Spite of the other's invitation, the smith remained standing and with
downcast eyes, began:

"I am not good at talking. You know how I was thrown into a dungeon on
Valentine's account, but no one can understand my feelings during that
time. Ulrich was left alone here among this miserable rabble with nobody
to care for him, for our old maid-servant was seventy. I had buried my
money in a safe place and there was nothing in the house except a loaf of
bread and a few small coins, barely enough to last three days. The child
was always before my eyes; I saw him ragged, begging, starving. But my
anxiety tortured me most, after they had released me and I was going back
to my house from the castle. It was a walk of two hours, but each one
seemed as long as St. John's day. Should I find Ulrich or not? What had
become of him? It was already dark, when I at last stood before the
house. Everything was as silent as the grave, and the door was locked.
Yet I must get in, so I rapped with my fingers, and then pounded with my
fist on the door and shutters, but all in vain. Finally Spittellorle--[A
nickname; literally: "Hospital Loura."]--came out of the red house next
mine, and I heard all. The old woman had become idiotic, and was in the
stocks. Ulrich was at the point of death, and Doctor Costa had taken him
home. When I heard this, I felt the same as you did just now; anger
seized upon me, and I was as much ashamed as if I were standing in the
pillory. My child with the Jew! There was not much time for reflection,
and I set off at full speed for the doctor's house. A light was shining
through the window. It was high above the street, but as it stood open
and I am tall, I could look in and see over the whole room. At the right
side, next the wall, was a bed, where amid the white pillows lay my boy.
The doctor sat by his side, holding the child's hand in his. Little Ruth
nestled to him, asking: 'Well, father?' The man smiled. Do you know him,
Pater? He is about thirty years old, and has a pale, calm face. He smiled
and said so gratefully, so-so joyously, as if Ulrich were his own son:
'Thank God, he will be spared to us!' The little girl r