, which
was pervaded by a faint, agreeable perfume, gazing now at the
logs burning in the beautiful marble mantel-piece, and then at the
magistrate, who had brought him strange tidings.

The prelate's white woollen morning-robe clung closely around his
stately figure. Beside him lay, side by side, for comparison, two
manuscript copies of his favorite book, the idyls of Theocritus, which,
for his amusement, and to excel the translation of Coban Hesse, he was
turning into Latin verse, as the duties of his office gave him leisure.

The magistrate was standing by the fire-side. He was a thick-set man
of middle height, with a large head, and clever but coarse features, as
rudely moulded as if they had been carved from wood. He was one of the
best informed lawyers in the country, and his words flowed as smoothly
and clearly from his strong lips, as if every thought in his keen brain
was born fully matured and beautifully finished.

In the farthest corner of the room, awaiting a sign from his master,
stood the magistrate's clerk, a little man with a round head, and legs
like the sickle of the waxing or waning moon. He carried under his short
arms two portfolios, filled with important papers.

"He comes from Portugal, and has lived under an assumed name?" So the
abbot repeated, what he had just heard.

"His name is Lopez, not Costa," replied the other; "these papers prove
it. Give me the portfolio, man! The diploma is in the brown one."

He handed a parchment to the prelate, who, after reading it, said
firmly:

"This Jew is a more important person than we supposed. They are not
lavish with such praise in Coimbra. Are you taking good care of the
doctor's books Herr Conrad? I will look at them to-morrow."

"They are at your disposal. These papers...."

"Leave them, leave them."

"There will be more than enough for the complaint without them," said
the magistrate. "Our town-clerk, who though no student is, as you
know, a man of much experience, shares my opinion." Then he continued
pathetically: "Only he who has cause to fear the law hides his name,
only he, who feels guilty, flees the judge."

A subtle smile, that was not wholly free from bitterness, hovered
around the abbot's lips, for he thought of the painful trial and the
torture-chamber in the town hall, and no longer saw in the doctor merely
the Jew, but the humanist and companion in study.

His glance again fell on the diploma, and while the other continued h