The angry blood mounted into the monk's cheeks, and he cried:

threateningly: "Oho!  The chapter will teach you better to your sorrow.
Keep the boy away from the Jew, or ......"

"Or?"  repeated the smith, looking Father Benedict steadily in the face.

The latter's lips curled still more deeply, as after a pause, he replied:
"Or excommunication and a fitting punishment will fall upon you and the
vagabond doctor.  Tit for tat.  We have grown tender-hearted, and it is
long since a Jew has been burned for an example to many."

These words did not fail to produce an effect, for though Adam was a
brave man, the monk threatened him with things, against which he felt
as powerless as when confronted with the might of the tempest and the
lightning flashing from the clouds.  His features now expressed deep
mental anguish, and stretching out his hands repellently towards his
guest, he cried anxiously "No, no!  Nothing more can happen to me.  No
excommunication, no punishment, can make my present suffering harder to
bear, but if you harm the doctor, I shall curse the hour I invited you
to cross my threshold."

The monk looked at the other in surprise and answered in a more gentle
tone: "You have always walked in your own way, Adam; but whither are you
going now?  Has the Jew bewitched you, or what binds you to him, that you
look, on his account, as if a thunderbolt had struck you?  No one shall
have cause to curse the hour he invited Benedict to be his guest.  See
your way clearly once more, and when you have come to your senses--why,
we monks have two eyes, that we may be able to close one when occasion
requires.  Have you any special cause for gratitude to Costa?"

"Many, Father, many !"  cried the smith, his voice still trembling with
only too well founded anxiety for his friend.  "Listen, and when you know
what he has done for me, and are disposed to judge leniently, do not
carry what reaches your ears here before the chapter no, Father--
I beseech you--do not.  For if it should be I, by whom the doctor came
to ruin, I--I...."  The man's voice failed, and his chest heaved so
violently 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
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 covered with fresh linen for
the guest--Ulrich already lay in his bed, apparently asleep.

"We have no other room to give you," said Adam, pointing to the boy; but
the monk was content with his sleeping companions, and after his host had
left him, gazed earnestly at Ulrich's fresh, handsome face.

The smith's story had moved him, and he did not go to rest at once, but
paced thoughtfully up and down the room, stepping lightly, that he might
not disturb the child's slumber.

Adam had reason to be grateful to the man, and why should there not be
good Jews?

He thought of the patriarchs, Moses, Solomon, and the prophets, and had
not the Saviour himself, and John and Paul, whom he loved above all the
apostles, been the children of Jewish mothers, and grown up among Jews?
And Adam!  the poor fellow had had more than his share of trouble, and he
who believes himself deserted by God, easily turns to the devil.  He was
warned now, and the mischief to his son must be stopped once for all.
What might not the child hear from the Jew, in these times, when heresy
wandered about like a roaring lion, and sat by all the roads like a
siren.  Only by a miracle had this secluded valley been spared the evil
teachings, but the peasants had already shown that they grudged the
nobles the power, the cities the rich gains, and the priesthood the
authority and earthly possessions, bestowed on them by God.  He was
disposed to let mildness rule, and spare the Jew this time--but only on
one condition.

When he took off his cowl, he looked for a hook on which to hang it, and
while so doing, perceived on the shelf a row of boards.  Taking one down,
he found a sketch of an artistic design for the enclosure of a fountain,
done by the smith's hand, and directly opposite his bed a linden-wood
panel, on which a portrait was drawn with charcoal.  This roused his
curiosity, and, throwing the light of the torch upon it, he started back,
for it was a rudely executed, but wonderfully life-like head of Costa,
the Jew.  He remembered him perfectly, for he had met him more than once.

The monk shook his head angrily, but lifted the picture from the shelf
and examined more closely the doctor's delicately-cut nose, and the noble
arch of the brow.  While so doing, he muttered unintelligible words, and
when at last, with little show of care, he restored the modest work of
art to its old place, Ulrich awoke, and, with a touch of pride,
exclaimed:

"I drew that myself, Father!"

"Indeed!" replied the monk.  "I know of better models for a pious lad.
You must go to sleep now, and to-morrow get up early and help your
father.  Do you understand?"

So saying, with no gentle hand he turned the boy's head towards the wall.
The mildness awakened by Adam's story had all vanished to the winds.

Adam allowed his son to practise idolatry with the Jew, and make pictures
of him.  This was too much.  He threw himself angrily on his couch, and
began to consider what was to be done in this difficult matter, but sleep
soon brought his reflections to an end.

Ulrich rose very early, and when Benedict saw him again in the light of
the young day, and once more looked at the Jew's portrait, drawn by the
handsome boy, a thought came to him as if inspired by the saints
themselves--the thought of persuading the smith to give his son to the
monastery.




CHAPTER IV.

This morning Pater Benedictus was a totally different person from the
man, who had sat over the wine the night before.  Coldly and formally he
evaded the smith's questions, until the latter had sent his son away.

Ulrich, without making any objection, had helped his father shoe the
sorrel horse, and in a few minutes, by means of a little stroking over
the eyes and nose, slight caresses, and soothing words, rendered the
refractory stallion as docile as a lamb.  No horse had ever resisted
the lad, from the time he was a little child, the smith said, though
for what reason he did not know.  These words pleased the monk, for he
was only too familiar with two fillies, that were perfect fiends for
refractoriness, and the fair-haired boy could show his gratitude for
the schooling he received, by making himself useful in the stable.

Ulrich must go to the monastery, so Benedictus curtly declared with the
utmost positiveness, after the smith had finished his work.  At midsummer
a place would be vacant in the school, and this should be reserved for
the boy.  A great favor!  What a prospect--to be reared there with
aristocratic companions, and instructed in the art of painting.  Whether
he should become a priest, or follow some worldly pursuit, could be
determined later.  In a few years the boy could choose without restraint.

This plan would settle everything in the best possible way.  The Jew need
not be injured, and the smith's imperiled son would be saved.  The monk
would hear no objections.  Either the accusation against the doctor
should be laid before the chapter, or Ulrich must go to the school.

In four weeks, on St. John's Day, so Benedictus declared, the smith and
his son might announce their names to the porter.  Adam must have saved
many florins, and there would be time enough to get the lad shoes and
clothes, that he might hold his own in dress with the other scholars.

During this whole transaction the smith felt like a wild animal in the
hunter's toils, and could say neither "yes" nor "no."  The monk did not
insist upon a promise, but, as he rode away, flattered himself that he
had snatched a soul from the claws of Satan, and gained a prize for the
monastery-school and his stable--a reflection that made him very
cheerful.

Adam retrained alone beside the fire.  Often, when his heart was heavy,
he had seized his huge hammer and deadened his sorrow by hard work; but
to-day he let the tool lie, for the consciousness of weakness and lack
of will paralyzed his lusty vigor, and he stood with drooping head, as
if utterly crushed.  The thoughts that moved him could not be exactly
expressed in words, but doubtless a vision of the desolate forge, where
he would stand alone by the fire without Ulrich, rose before his mind.
Once the idea of closing his house, taking the boy by the hand, and
wandering out into the world with him, flitted through his brain.  But
then, what would become of the Jew, and how could he leave this place?
Where would his miserable wife, the accursed, lovely sinner, find him,
when she sought him again?  Ulrich had run out of doors long ago.  Had
he gone to study his lessons with the Jew?  He started in terror at the
thought.  Passing his hands over his eyes, like a dreamer roused from
sleep, he went into his chamber, threw off his apron, cleansed his face
and hands from the soot of the forge, put on his burgher dress, which he
only wore when he went to church or visited the doctor, and entered the
street.

The thunder-storm had cleared the air, and the sun shone pleasantly on
the shingled roofs of the miserable houses of the Richtberg.  Its rays
were reflected from the little round window-panes, and flickered over the
tree-tops on the edge of the ravine.

The light-green hue of the fresh young foliage on the beeches glittered
as brightly against the dark pines, as if Spring had made them a token of
her mastery over the grave companions of Winter; yet even the pines were
not passed by, and where her finger had touched the tips of the branches
in benediction, appeared tender young shoots, fresh as the grass by the
brook, and green as chrysophase and emerald.

The stillness of morning reigned within the forest, yet it was full of
life, rich in singing, chirping and twittering.  Light streamed from the
blue sky through the tree-tops, and the golden sunbeams shimmered and
danced over the branches, trunks and ground, as if they had been prisoned
in the woods and could never find their way out.  The shadows of the tall
trunks lay in transparent bars on the underbrush, luxuriant moss, and
ferns, and the dew clung to the weeds and grass.

Nature had celebrated her festival of resurrection at Easter, and the day
after the morrow joyous Whitsuntide would begin.  Fresh green life was
springing from the stump of every dead tree; even the rocks afforded
sustenance to a hundred roots, a mossy covering and network of thorny
tendrils clung closely to them.  The wild vine twined boldly up many a
trunk, fruit was already forming on the bilberry bushes, though it still
glimmered with a faint pink hue amid the green of May.  A thousand
blossoms, white, red, blue and yellow, swayed on their slender stalks,
opened their calixes to the bees, unfolded their stars to deck the
woodland carpet, or proudly stretched themselves up as straight as
candles.  Grey fungi had shot up after the refreshing rain, and gathered
round the red-capped giants among the mushrooms.  Under, over and around
all this luxuriant vegetation hopped, crawled, flew, fluttered, buzzed
and chirped millions of tiny, short-lived creatures.  But who heeds them
on a sunny Spring morning in the forest, when the birds are singing,
twittering, trilling, pecking, cooing and calling so joyously?  Murmuring
and plashing, the forest stream dashed down its steep bed over rocks and
amid moss-covered stones and smooth pebbles to the valley.  The hurrying
water lived, and in it dwelt its gay inhabitants, fresh plants grew along
the banks from source to mouth, while over and around it a third species
of living creatures sunned themselves, fluttered, buzzed and spun
delicate silk threads.

In the midst of a circular clearing, surrounded by dense woods, smoked a
charcoal kiln.  It was less easy to breathe here, than down in the forest
below.  Where Nature herself rules, she knows how to guard beauty and
purity, but where man touches her, the former is impaired and the latter
sullied.

It seemed as if the morning sunlight strove to check the smoke from the
smouldering wood, in order to mount freely into the blue sky.  Little
clouds floated over the damp, grassy earth, rotting tree-trunks, piles of
wood and heaps of twigs that surrounded the kiln.  A moss-grown but stood
at the edge of the forest, and before it sat Ulrich, talking with the
coal-burner.  People called this man "Hangemarx,"  and in truth he
looked in his black rags, like one of those for whom it is a pity that
Nature should deck herself in her Spring garb.  He had a broad, peasant
face, his mouth was awry, and his thick yellowish-red hair, which in many
places looked washed out or faded, hung so low over his narrow forehead,
that it wholly concealed it, and touched his bushy, snow-white brows.
The eyes under them needed to be taken on trust, they were so well
concealed, but when they peered through the narrow chink between the rows
of lashes, not even a mote escaped them.  Ulrich was shaping an arrow,
and meantime asking the coal-burner numerous questions, and when the
latter prepared to answer, the boy laughed heartily, for before Hangemarx
could speak, he was obliged to straighten his crooked mouth by three
jerking motions, in which his nose and cheeks shared.

An important matter was being discussed between the two strangely
dissimilar companions.

After it grew dark, Ulrich was to come to the charcoal-burner again.
Marx knew where a fine buck couched, and was to drive it towards the boy,
that he might shoot it.  The host of the Lamb down in the town needed
game, for his Gretel was to be married on Tuesday.  True, Marx could kill
the animal himself, but Ulrich had learned to shoot too, and if the place
whence the game came should be noised abroad, the charcoal-burner,
without any scruples of conscience, could swear that he did not shoot
the buck, but found it with the arrow in its heart.

People called the charcoal-burner a poacher, and he owed his ill-name of
"Hangemarx" to the circumstance that once, though long ago, he had
adorned a gallows.  Yet he was not a dishonest man, only he remembered
too faithfully the bold motto, which, when a boy, one peasant wood-cutter
or charcoal-burner whispered to another:

"Forest, stream and meadow are free."

His dead father had joined the Bundschuh,--[A peasants' league which
derived its name from the shoe, of peculiar shape, worn by its members.]
--adopted this motto, and clung fast to it and with it, to the belief
that every living thing in the forest belonged to him, as much as to the
city, the nobles, or the monastery.  For this faith he had undergone much
suffering, and owed to it his crooked mouth and ill name, for just as his
beard was beginning to grow, the father of the reigning count came upon
him, just after he had killed a fawn in the "free" forest.  The legs of
the heavy animal were tied together with ropes, and Marx was obliged to
take the ends of the knot between his teeth like a bridle, and drag the
carcass to the castle.  While so doing his cheeks were torn open, and the
evil deed neither pleased him nor specially strengthened his love for the
count.  When, a short time after, the rebellion broke out in Stuhlingen,
and he heard that everywhere the peasants were rising against the monks
and nobles, he, too, followed the black, red and yellow banner, first
serving with Hans Muller of Bulgenbach, then with Jacklein Rohrbach of
Bockingen, and participating with the multitude in the overthrow of the
city and castle of Neuenstein.  At Weinsberg he saw Count Helfenstein
rush upon the spears, and when the noble countess was driven past him to
Heilbronn in the dung-cart, he tossed his cap in the air with the rest.

The peasant was to be lord now; the yoke of centuries was to be broken;
unjust imposts, taxes, tithes and villenage would be forever abolished,
while the fourth of the twelve articles he had heard read aloud more than
once, remained firmly fixed in his memory "Game, birds and fish every one
is free to catch."  Moreover, many a verse from the Gospel, unfavorable
to the rich, but promising the kingdom of heaven to the poor, and that
the last shall be first, had reached his ears.  Doubtless many of the
leaders glowed with lofty enthusiasm for the liberation of the poor
people from unendurable serfdom and oppression; but when Marx, and men
like him, left wife and children and risked their lives, they remembered
only the past, and the injustice they had suffered, and were full of a
fierce yearning to trample the dainty, torturing demons under their
heavy peasant feet.

The charcoal-burner had never lighted such bright fires, never tasted
such delicious meat and spicy wine, as during that period of his life,
while vengeance had a still sweeter savor than all the rest.  When the
castle fell, and its noble mistress begged for mercy, he enjoyed a
foretaste of the promised paradise.  Satan has also his Eden of fiery
roses, but they do not last long, and when they wither, put forth sharp
thorns.  The peasants felt them soon enough, for at Sindelfingen they
found their master in Captain Georg Truchsess of Waldberg.

Marx fell into his troopers' hands and was hung on the gallows, but only
in mockery and as a warning to others; for before he and his companions
perished, the men took them down, cut their oath-fingers from their
hands, and drove them back into their old servitude.  When he at last
returned home, his house had been taken from his family, whom he found in
extreme poverty.  The father of Adam, the smith, to whom he had formerly
sold charcoal, redeemed the house, gave him work, and once, when a band
of horsemen came to the city searching for rebellious peasants, the old
man did not forbid him to hide three whole days in his barn.

Since that time everything had been quiet in Swabia, and neither in
forest, stream nor meadow had any freedom existed.

Marx had only himself to provide for; his wife was dead, and his sons
were raftsmen, who took pine logs to Mayence and Cologne, sometimes even
as far as Holland.  He owed gratitude to no one but Adam, and showed in
his way that he was conscious of it, for he taught Ulrich all sorts of
things which were of no advantage to a boy, except to give him pleasure,
though even in so doing he did not forget his own profit.  Ulrich was now
fifteen, and could manage a cross-bow and hit the mark like a skilful
hunter, and as the lad did not lack a love for the chase, Marx afforded
him the pleasure.  All he had heard about the equal rights of men he
engrafted into the boy's soul, and when to-day, for the hundredth time,
Ulrich expressed a doubt whether it was not stealing to kill game that
belonged to the count, the charcoal-burner straightened his mouth, and
said:

"Forest, stream and meadow are free.  Surely you know that."

The boy gazed thoughtfully at the ground for a time, and then asked:

"The fields too?"

"The fields?" repeated Marx, in surprise.  "The fields?  The fields are a
different matter."  He glanced as he spoke, at the field of oats he had
sown in the autumn, and which now bore blades a finger long.  "The fields
are man's work and belong to him who tills them, but the forest, stream
and meadow were made by God.  Do you understand?  What God created for
Adam and Eve is everybody's property."

As the sun rose higher, and the cuckoo began to raise its voice, Ulrich's
name was shouted loudly several times in rapid succession through the
forest.  The arrow he had been shaping flew into a corner, and with a
hasty "When it grows dusk, Marxle!"  Ulrich dashed into the woods, and
soon joined his playmate Ruth.

The pair strolled slowly through the forest by the side of the stream,
enjoying the glorious morning, and gathering flowers to carry a bouquet
to the little girl's mother.  Ruth culled the blossoms daintily with the
tips of her fingers; Ulrich wanted to help, and tore the slender stalks
in tufts from the roots by the handful.  Meantime their tongues were not
idle.  Ulrich boastfully told her that Pater Benedictus had seen his
picture of her father, recognized it instantly, and muttered something
over it.  His mother's blood was strong in him; his imaginary world was a
very different one from that of the narrow-minded boys of the Richtberg.

His father had told him much, and the doctor still more, about the wide,
wide world-kings, artists and great heroes.  From Hangemarx he learned,
that he possessed the same rights and dignity as all other men, and
Ruth's wonderful power of imagination peopled his fancy with the
strangest shapes and figures.  She made royal crowns of wreaths,
transformed the little hut, the lad had built of boughs, behind the
doctor's house, into a glittering imperial palace, converted round
pebbles into ducats and golden zechins--bread and apples into princely
banquets; and when she had placed two stools before the wooden bench on
which she sat with Ulrich her fancy instantly transformed them into a
silver coronation coach with milk-white steeds.  When she was a fairy,
Ulrich was obliged to be a magician; if she was the queen, he was king.

When, to give vent to his animal spirits, Ulrich played with the
Richtberg boys, he always led them, but allowed himself to be guided
by little Ruth.  He knew that the doctor was a despised Jew, that she
was a Jewish child; but his father honored the Hebrew, and the foreign
atmosphere, the aristocratic, secluded repose that pervaded the solitary
scholar's house, exerted a strange influence over him.

When he entered it, a thrill ran through his frame; it seemed as if he
were penetrating into some forbidden sanctuary.  He was the only one of
all his playfellows, who was permitted to cross this threshold, and he
felt it as a distinction, for, in spite of his youth, he realized that
the quiet doctor, who knew everything that existed in heaven and on
earth, and yet was as mild and gentle as a child, stood far, far above
the miserable drudges, who struggled with sinewy hands for mere existence
on the Richtberg.  He expected everything from him, and Ruth also seemed
a very unusual creature, a delicate work of art, with whom he, and he
only, was allowed to play.

It might have happened, that when irritated he would upbraid her with
being a wretched Jewess, but it would scarcely have surprised him,
if she had suddenly stood before his eyes as a princess or a phoenix.

When the Richtberg lay close beneath them, Ruth sat down on a stone,
placing her flowers in her lap.  Ulrich threw his in too, and, as the
bouquet grew, she held it towards him, and he thought it very pretty;
but she said, sighing:

"I wish roses grew in the forest; not common hedgeroses, but like those
in Portugal--full, red, and with the real perfume.  There is nothing that
smells sweeter."

So it always was with the pair.  Ruth far outstripped Ulrich in her
desires and wants, thus luring him to follow her.

"A rose!" repeated Ulrich.  "How astonished you look!"

Her wish reminded him of the magic word she had mentioned the day before,
and they talked about it all the way home, Ulrich saying that he had
waked three times in the night on account of it.  Ruth eagerly
interrupted him, exclaiming:

"I thought of it again too, and if any one would tell the what it was,
I should know what to wish now.  I would not have a single human being
in the world except you and me, and my father and mother."

"And my little mother!" added Ulrich, earnestly.

"And your father, too!"

"Why, of course, he, too!" said the boy, as if to make hasty atonement
for his neglect.




CHAPTER V.

The sun was shining brightly on the little windows of the Israelite's
sitting-room, which were half open to admit the Spring air, though
lightly shaded with green curtains, for Costa liked a subdued light, and
was always careful to protect his apartment from the eyes of passers-by.

There was nothing remarkable to be seen, for the walls were whitewashed,
and their only ornament was a garland of lavender leaves, whose perfume
Ruth's mother liked to inhale.  The whole furniture consisted of a chest,
several stools, a bench covered with cushions, a table, and two plain
wooden arm-chairs.

One of the latter had long been the scene of Adam's happiest hours, for
he used to sit in it when he played chess with Costa.

He had sometimes looked on at the noble game while in Nuremberg; but the
doctor understood it thoroughly, and had initiated him into all its
rules.

For the first two years Costa had remained far in advance of his pupil,
then he was compelled to defend himself in good earnest, and now it not
unfrequently happened that the smith vanquished the scholar.  True, the
latter was much quicker than the former, who if the situation became
critical, pondered over it an unconscionably long time.

Two hands more unlike had rarely met over a chess-board; one suggested a
strong, dark ploug-ox, the other a light, slender-limbed palfrey.  The
Israelite's figure looked small in contrast with the smith's gigantic
frame.  How coarse-grained, how heavy with thought the German's big, fair
head appeared, how delicately moulded and intellectual the Portuguese
Jew's.

To-day the two men had again sat down to the game, but instead of
playing, had been talking very, very earnestly.  In the course of the
conversation the doctor had left his place and was pacing restlessly to
and fro.  Adam retained his seat.

His friend's arguments had convinced him.  Ulrich was to be sent to
the monastery-school.  Costa had also been informed of the danger that
threatened his own person, and was deeply agitated.  The peril was great,
very great, yet it was hard, cruelly hard, to quit this peaceful nook.
The smith understood what was passing in his mind, and said:

"It is hard for you to go.  What binds you here to the Richtberg?"

"Peace, peace!" cried the other.  "And then," he added more calmly,
"I have gained land here."

"You?"

"The large and small graves behind the executioner's house, they are my
estates."

"It is hard, hard to leave them," said the smith, with drooping head.
"All this comes upon you on account of the kindness you have shown my
boy; you have had a poor reward from us."

"Reward?" asked the other, a subtle smile hovering around his lips.
"I expect none, neither from you nor fate.  I belong to a poor sect,
that does not consider whether its deeds will be repaid or not.  We love
goodness, set a high value on it, and practise it, so far as our power
extends, because it is so beautiful.  What have men called good?  Only
that which keeps the soul calm.  And what is evil?  That which fills it
with disquiet.  I tell you, that the hearts of those who pursue virtue,
though they are driven from their homes, hunted and tortured like noxious
beasts, are more tranquil than those of their powerful persecutors, who
practise evil.  He who seeks any other reward for virtue, than virtue
itself, will not lack disappointment.  It is neither you nor Ulrich, who
drives me hence, but the mysterious ancient curse, that pursues my people
when they seek to rest; it is, it is....  Another time, to-morrow.  This
is enough for to-day."

When the doctor was alone, he pressed his hand to his brow and groaned
aloud.  His whole life passed before his mind, and he found in it,
besides terrible suffering, great and noble joys, and not an hour in
which his desire for virtue was weakened.  He had spent happy years here
in the peace of his simple home, and now must again set forth and wander
on and on, with nothing before his eyes save an uncertain goal, at the
end of a long, toilsome road.  What had hitherto been his happiness,
increased his misery in this hour.  It was hard, unspeakably hard, to
drag his wife and child through want and sorrow, and could Elizabeth,
his wife, bear it again?

He found her in the tiny garden behind the horse, kneeling before a
flower-bed to weed it.  As he greeted her pleasantly, she rose and
beckoned to him.

"Let us sit down," he said, leading her to the bench before the hedge,
that separated the garden from the forest.  There he meant to tell her,
that they must again shake the dust from their feet.

She had lost the power of speech on the rack in Portugal, and could only
falter a few unintelligible words, when greatly excited, but her hearing
had remained, and her husband understood how to read the expression of
her eyes.  A great sorrow had drawn a deep line in the high, pure brow,
and this also was eloquent; for when she felt happy and at peace it was
scarcely perceptible, but if an anxious or sorrowful mood existed, the
furrow contracted and deepened.  To-day it seemed to have entirely
disappeared.  Her fair hair was drawn plainly and smoothly, over her
temples, and the slender, slightly stooping figure, resembled a young
tree, which the storm has bowed and deprived of strength and will to
raise itself.

"Beautiful!" she exclaimed in a smothered tone, with much effort, but
her bright glance clearly expressed the joy that filled her soul, as she
pointed to the green foliage around her and the blue sky over their
heads.

"Delicious-delicious!"  he answered, cordially.  "The June day is
reflected in your dear face.  You have learned to be contented here?"

Elizabeth nodded eagerly, pressing both hands upon her heart, while her
eloquent glance told him how well, how grateful and happy, she felt here;
and when in reply to his timid question, whether it would be hard for her
to leave this place and seek another, a safer home, she gazed at first in
surprise, then anxiously into his face, and then, with an eager gesture
of refusal, gasped "Not go--not go!"  He answered, soothingly:

"No, no; we are still safe here to-day!"

Elizabeth knew her husband, and had keen eyes; a presentiment of
approaching danger seized upon her.  Her features assumed an expression
of terrified expectation and deep grief.  The furrow in her brow
deepened, and questioning glances and gestures united with the
"What?--what?" trembling on her lips.

"Do not fear!" he replied, tenderly."  We must not spoil the present,
because the future might bring something that is not agreeable to us."

As he uttered the words, she pressed closely to him, clutching his arm
with both hands, but he felt the rapid throbbing of her heart, and
perceived by the violent agitation expressed in every feature, what deep,
unconquerable horror was inspired by the thought of being compelled to go
out into the world again, hunted from country to country, from town to
town.  All that she had suffered for his sake, came back to his memory,
and he clasped her trembling hands in his with passionate fervor.  It
seemed as if it would be very, very easy, to die with her, but wholly
impossible to thrust her forth again into a foreign land and to an
uncertain fate; so, kissing her on her eyes, which were dilated with
horrible fear, he exclaimed, as if no peril, but merely a foolish wish
had suggested the desire to roam:

"Yes, child, it is best here.  Let us be content with what we have.  We
will stay!--yes, we will stay!"  Elizabeth drew a long breath, as if
relieved from an incubus, her brow became smooth, and it seemed as if the
dumb mouth joined the large upraised eyes in uttering an "Amen," that
came from the inmost depths of the heart.

Costa's soul was saddened and sorely troubled, when he returned to the
house and his writing-table.  The old maid-servant, who had accompanied
him from Portugal, entered at the same time, and watched his
preparations, shaking her head.  She was a small, crippled Jewess, a
grey-haired woman, with youthful, bright, dark eyes, and restless hands,
that fluttered about her face with rapid, convulsive gestures, while she
talked.

She had grown old in Portugal, and contracted rheumatism in the unusual
cold of the North, so even in Spring she wrapped her head in all the gay
kerchiefs she owned.  She kept the house scrupulously neat, understood
how to prepare tempting dishes from very simple materials, and bought
everything she needed for the kitchen.  This was no trifling matter for
her, since, though she had lived more than nine years in the black
Forest, she had learned few German words.  Even these the neighbors
mistook for Portuguese, though they thought the language bore some
distant resemblance to German.  Her gestures they understood perfectly.

She had voluntarily followed the doctor's father, yet she could not
forgive the dead man, for having brought her out of the warm South into
this horrible country.  Having been her present master's nurse, she took
many liberties with him, insisting upon knowing everything that went on
in the household, of which she felt herself the oldest, and therefore the
most distinguished member; and it was strange how quickly she could hear
when she chose, spite of her muffled ears!

To-day she had been listening again, and as her master was preparing to
take his seat at the table and sharpen his goose-quill, she glanced
around to see that they were entirely alone; then approached, saying in
Portuguese:

"Don't begin that, Lopez.  You must listen to me first."

"Must I?" he asked, kindly.

"If you don't choose to do it, I can go!"  she answered, angrily.  "To be
sure, sitting still is more comfortable than running."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Do you suppose yonder books are the walls of Zion?  Do you feel inclined
to make the monks' acquaintance once more?"

"Fie, fie,  Rahel, listening again?  Go  into  the kitchen!"

"Directly!  Directly!  But I will speak first.  You pretend, that you are
only staying here to please your wife, but it's no such thing.  It's
yonder writing that keeps you.  I know life, but you and your wife are
just like two children.  Evil is forgotten in the twinkling of an eye,
and blessing is to come straight from Heaven, like quails and manna.
What sort of a creature have your books made you, since you came with the
doctor's hat from Coimbra?  Then everybody said: 'Lopez, Senor Lopez.
Heavenly Father, what a shining light he'll be!'  And now!  The Lord have
mercy on us!  You work, work, and what does it bring you?  Not an egg;
not a rush!  Go to your uncle in the Netherlands.  He'll forget the
curse, if you submit!  How many of the zechins, your father saved, are
still left?"

Here the doctor interrupted the old woman's torrent of speech with a
stern "enough!" but she would not allow herself to be checked, and
continued with increasing volubility.

"Enough, you say?  I fret over perversity enough in silence.  May my