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 ran to her dumb mother, who was sitting by the
stove, winding yarn, exclaiming: 'Mother, he'll get well again. I have
prayed for him every day.' The Jew bent over my child and pressed his
lips upon the boy's brow--and I, I--I no longer clenched my fist, and
was so overwhelmed with emotion, that I could not help weeping, as if I
were still a child myself, and since then, Pater Benedictus, since...."
He paused; the monk rose, laid his hand on the smith's shoulder, and
said:

"It has grown late, Adam. Show me to my couch. Another day will come
early to-morrow morning, and we should sleep over important matters. But
one thing is settled, and must remain so-under all circumstances: the
boy is no longer to be taught by the Jew. He must help you shoe the
horses to-morrow. You will be reasonable!"

The smith made no reply, but lighted the monk to the room where he and
his son usually slept. His own couch was cove