he nodded silently.

"Now comes the best thing. Have you ever seen more beautiful
workmanship? You must wear this necklace, Ruth, as my first gift."

He held up the costly ornament, but she shrank back, asking bitterly

"Captured booty?"

"In honorable war," he answered, proudly, approaching to fasten the
jewels round her neck with his own hands; but she pushed him back,
snatched the ornament, and hurled it on the floor, exclaiming angrily:

"I loathe the stolen thing. Pick it up. It may suit the camp-followers."

This destroyed his self-control, and seizing both her arms in an iron
grasp, he muttered through his clenched teeth:

"That is an insult to my mother; take it back." But Ruth heard and saw
nothing; full of indignation she only felt that violence was being done
her, and vainly struggled against the irresistible strength, which held
her fast.

Meantime the door had opened wide, but neither noticed it until a man's
deep voice loudly and wrathfully exclaimed:

"Back, you scoundrel! Come here, Ruth. This is the way the assassin
greets his family; begone, begone! you disgrace of my house!"

Adam had uttered the words, and now drew the hammer from the belt of his
leather apron.

Ulrich gazed mutely into his face. There stood his father, strong,
gigantic, as he had looked thirteen years before. His head was a little
bowed, his beard longer and whiter, his eyebrows were more bushy and his
expression had grown more gloomy; otherwise he was wholly unchanged in
every feature.

The son's eyes rested on the smith as if spellbound. It seemed as if
some malicious fate had drawn him into a snare.

He could say nothing except, "father, father," and the smith found no
other answer than the harsh "begone!"

Ruth approached the armorer, clung to his side, and pleaded:

"Hear him, don't send him away so; he is your child, and if anger just
now overpowered him...."

"Spanish custom--to abuse women!" cried Adam. "I have no son Navarrete,
or whatever the murderous monster calls himself. I am a burgher, and
have no son, who struts about in the stolen clothes of noblemen; as
to this man and his assassins, I hate them, hate them all. Your foot
defiles my house. Out with you, knave, or I will use my hammer."

Ulrich again exclaimed, "father, father!" Then, regaining his
self-control by a violent effort, he gasped:

"Father, I came to you in good will, in love. I am an honest soldier
and if any one but you--'Sdeath--i