wading and climbing.
Often, on the doctor's account, the smith called in a low voice, "Halt!"
and then Costa approached the sleigh and asked: "How do you feel?"  or
said: "We are getting on bravely."

Rahel screamed whenever a fox barked in the distance, a wolf howled, or
an owl flew through the treetops, brushing the snow from the branches
with its wings; but the others also started.  Marx alone walked quietly
and undisturbed beside his little horse's thick head; he was familiar
with all the voices of the forest.

It grew colder towards morning.  Ruth woke and cried, and her father,
panting for breath, asked: "When shall we rest?"

"Behind  the  height;  ten arrow-shots farther," replied the charcoal-
burner.

"Courage," whispered the smith.  "Get on the sledge, doctor; we'll push."

But Costa shook his head, pointed to the panting horse, and dragged
himself onward.

The poacher must have sent his arrows in a strange curve, for one quarter
of an hour after another slipped by, and the top was not yet gained.
Meantime it grew lighter and lighter, and the charcoal-burner, with
increasing anxiety, ever and anon raised his head, and glanced aside.
The sky was covered with clouds-the light overhead grey, dim, and blended
with mist.  The snow was still dazzling, though it no longer sparkled and
glittered, but covered every object with the dull whiteness of chalk.

Ulrich kept beside the sledge to push it.  When Ruth heard him groan, she
stroked the hand that grasped the edges, this pleased him; and he smiled.

When they again stopped, this time on the crest of the ridge, Ulrich
noticed that the charcoal-burner was sniffing the air like a hound, and
asked:

"What is it, Marxle?"

The poacher grinned, as he answered: "It's going to snow; I smell it."

The road now led down towards the valley, and, after a short walk, the
charcoal-burner said:

"We shall find shelter below with Jorg, and a warm fire too, you poor
women."

These were cheering words, and came just at the right time, for large
snow-flakes began to fill the air, and a light breeze drove them into
the travellers' faces.  "There!"  cried Ulrich, pointing to the snow
covered roof of a wooden hut, that stood close before them in a clearing
on the edge of the forest.

Every face brightened, but Marx shook his head doubtfully, muttering:

"No smoke, no barking; the place is empty.  Jorg has gone.  At
Whitsuntide--how many years ago is it?--the boys left  to act as
raftsmen, but then he stayed here."

Reckoning time was not the charcoal-burner's strong point; and the empty
hut, the dreary open window-casements in the mouldering wooden walls, the
holes in the roof, through which a quantity of snow had drifted into the
only room in the deserted house, indicated that no human being had sought
shelter here for many a winter.

Old Rahel uttered a fresh wail of grief, when she saw this shelter; but
after the men had removed the snow as well as they could, and covered the
holes in the roof with pine-branches; when Adam had lighted a fire, and
the sacks and coverlets were brought in from the sledge, and laid on a
dry spot to furnish seats for the women, fresh courage entered their
hearts, and Rahel, unasked, dragged herself to the hearth, and set the
snow-filled pot on the fire.

"The nag must have two hours' rest," Marx said, "then they could push on
and reach the miller in the ravine before night.  There they would find
kind friends, for Jacklein had been with him among the 'peasants.'"
The snow-water boiled, the doctor and his wife rested, Ulrich and Ruth
brought wood, which the smith had split, to the fire to dry, when
suddenly a terrible cry of grief rang outside of the hut.

Costa hastily rose, the children followed, and old Rahel, whimpering,
drew the upper kerchief on her head over her face.

The little horse, its tiny legs stretched far apart, was lying in the
snow by the sledge.  Beside it knelt Marx, holding the clumsy head on his
knee, and blowing with his crooked mouth into the animal's nostrils.  The
creature showed its yellow teeth, and put out its bluish tongue as if it
wanted to lick him; then the heavy head fell, the dying animal's eyes
started from their sockets, its legs grew perfectly stiff, and this time
the horse was really dead, while the shafts of the sledge vainly thrust
themselves into the air, like the gaping mouth of a deserted bird.

No farther progress was possible.  The women sat trembling in the hut,
roasting before the fire, and shivering when a draught touched them....
Ruth wept for the poor little horse, and Marx sat as if utterly crushed
beside his old friend's stiffening body, heeding nothing, least of all
the snow, which was making him whiter than the miller, with whom he had
expected to rest that evening.  The doctor gazed in mute despair at his
dumb wife, who, with clasped hands, was praying fervently; the smith
pressed his hand upon his brow, vainly pondering over what was to be done
now, until his head ached; while, from the distance, echoed the howl of a
hungry wolf, and a pair of ravens alighted on a white bough beside the
little horse, gazing greedily at the corpse lying in the snow.

Meantime, the abbot was sitting in his pleasantly-warmed study, 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 his
representations, the prelate stretched himself more comfortably in his
arm-chair and gazed thoughtfully at the ground.  Then, as if an idea had
suddenly occurred to him, he touched his high forehead with the tips of
his fingers, and suddenly interrupting the eager speaker, said:

"Father Anselm came to us from Porto five years ago, and when there knew
every one who understood Greek.  Go, Gutbub, and tell the librarian to
come."  The monk soon appeared.

Tidings of Ulrich's disappearance and the Jew's flight had spread rapidly
through the monastery; the news was discussed in the choir, the school,
the stable and the kitchen; Father Anselm alone had heard nothing of the
matter, though he had been busy in the library before daybreak, and the
vexatious incident had been eagerly talked of there.

It was evident, that the elderly man cared little for anything that
happened in the world, outside of his manuscripts and printing.  His
long, narrow head rested on a thin neck, which did not stand erect, but
grew out between the shoulders like a branch from the stem.  His face was
grey and lined with wrinkles, like pumice-stone, but large bright eyes
lent meaning and attraction to the withered countenance.

At first he listened indifferently to the abbot's story, but as soon as
the Jew's name was mentioned, and he had read the diploma, as swiftly as
if he possessed the gift of gathering the whole contents of ten lines at
a single comprehensive glance, he said eagerly:

"Lopez, Doctor Lopez was here!  And we did not know it, and have not
consulted with him!  Where is he?  What are people planning against him?"

After he had learned that the Jew had fled, and the abbot requested him
to tell all he knew about the doctor, he collected his thoughts and
sorrowfully began:

"To be sure, to be sure; the man committed a great offence.  He is a
great sinner in God's eyes.  You know his guilt?"

"We know everything," cried the magistrate, with a meaning glance at the
prelate.  Then, as if he sincerely pitied the criminal, he continued with
well-feigned sympathy: "How did the learned man commit such a misdeed?"

The abbot understood the stratagem, but Anselm's words could not be
recalled, and as he himself desired to learn more of the doctor's
history, he asked the monk to tell what he knew.

The librarian, in his curt, dry manner, yet with a warmth unusual to him,
described the doctor's great learning and brilliant intellect, saying
that his father, though a Jew, had been in his way an aristocratic man,
allied with many a noble family, for until the reign of King Emanuel, who
persecuted the Hebrews, they had enjoyed great distinction in Portugal.
In those days it had been hard to distinguish Jews from Christians.  At
the time of the expulsion a few favored Israelites had been allowed to
stay, among them the worthy Rodrigo, the doctor's father, who had been
the king's physician and was held in high esteem by the sovereign.
Lopez obtained the highest honors at Coimbra, but instead of following
medicine, like his father, devoted himself to the humanities.

"There was no need to earn his living--to earn his living," continued the
monk, speaking slowly and carefully, and repeating the conclusion of his
sentence, as if he were in the act of collating two manuscripts, "for
Rodrigo was one of the wealthiest men in Portugal.  His son Lopez was
rich, very rich in friends, and among them were numbered all to whom
knowledge was dear.  Even among the Christians he had many friends.
Among us--I mean in our library--he also obtained great respect.  I owe
him many a hint, much aid; I mean in referring me to rare books, and
explaining obscure passages.  When he no longer visited us, I missed him
sorely.  I am not curious; or do you think I am?  I am not curious, but
I could not help inquiring about him, and then I heard very bad things.
Women are to blame for everything; of course it was a woman again.  A
merchant from Flanders--a Christian--had settled in Porto.  The doctor's
father visited his house; but you probably know all this?"

"Of  course! of course!"  cried the magistrate.  "But go on with your
story."

"Old Doctor Rodrigo was the Netherlander's physician, and closed his
eyes on the death-bed.  An orphan was left, a girl, who had not a single
relative in Porto.  They said--I mean the young doctors and students who
had seen her--that she was pleasing, very pleasing to the eye.  But it
was not on that account, but because she was orphaned and desolate, that
the physician took the child--I mean the girl."

"And reared her as a Jewess?" interrupted the magistrate, with a
questioning glance.

"As a Jewess?" replied the monk, excitedly.  "Who says so?  He did
nothing of the sort.  A Christian widow educated her in the physician's
country-house, not in the city.  When the young doctor returned from
Coimbra, he saw her there more than once--more than once; certainly,
more often than was good for him.  The devil had a finger in the matter.
I know, too, how they were married.  Before one Jew and two Christian
witnesses, they plighted their troth to each other, and exchanged rings--
rings as if it were a Christian ceremony, though he remained a Jew and
she a Christian.  He intended to go to the Netherlands with her, but one
of the witnesses betrayed them--denounced them to the Holy Inquisition.
This soon interposed of course, for there it interferes with everything,
and in this case it was necessary; nay more--a Christian duty.  The young
wife was seized in the street with her attendant and thrown into prison;
on the rack she entirely lost the power of speech.  The old physician and
the doctor were warned in time, and kept closely concealed.  Through
Chamberlain de Sa, her uncle--or was it only her cousin?--through de Sa
the wife regained her liberty, and then I believe all three fled to
France--the father, son and wife.  But no, they must have come here...."

"There you have it!"  cried the magistrate, interrupting the monk, and
glancing triumphantly at the prelate.  "An old practitioner scents crime,
as a tree frog smells rain.  Now, for the first time, I can say with
certainty: We have him, and the worst punishment is too little for his
deserts.  There shall be an unparalleled execution, something wonderful,
magnificent, grand!  You have given me important information, and I thank
you, Father."

"Then you knew nothing?"  faltered the librarian; and, raising his neck
higher than usual, the vein in the centre of his forehead swelled with
wrath.

"No, Anselme!" said the abbot.  "But it was your duty to speak, as,
unfortunately, it was mine to listen.  Come to me again, by and bye; I
have something to say to you."

The librarian bowed silently, coldly and proudly, and without vouchsafing
the magistrate a single glance, went back, not to his books, but to his
cell, where he paced up and down a long time, sorrowfully murmuring
Lopez's name, striking himself on the mouth, pressing his clenched hand
to his brow, and at last throwing himself on his knees to pray for the
Jew, before the image of the crucified Redeemer.

As soon as the monk had left the room, the magistrate exclaimed:

"What unexpected aid!  What series of sins lie before us!  First the
small ones.  He had never worn the Jews' badge, and allowed himself to
be served by Christians, for Caspar's daughters were often at the
House to help in sewing.  A sword was found in his dwelling, and the Jew,
who carries weapons, renounces, since he uses self-protection, the aid of
the authorities.  Finally, we know that Lopez used an assumed name.  Now
we come to the great offences.  They are divided into four parts.  He has
practised magic spells; he has sought to corrupt a Christian's son by
heresies; he has led a Christian woman into a marriage; and he has--
I close with the worst--he has reared the daughter of a Christian woman,
I mean his wife, a Jewess!"

"Reared his child a Jewess?  Do you know that positively?"  asked the
abbot.

"She bears the Jewish name of Ruth.  What I have taken the liberty to
make prominent are well chosen, clearly-proved crimes, worthy of death.
Your learning is great, Reverend Abbot, but I know the old writers, too.
The Emperor Constantius made marriages between Jews and Christians
punishable with death.  I can show you the passage."

The abbot felt that the crime of which the Jew was accused was a heavy
and unpardonable one, but he regarded only the sin, and it vexed him to
see how the magistrate's zeal was exclusively turned against the unhappy
criminal.  So he rose, saying with cold hauteur:

"Then do your duty."

"Rely upon it.  We shall capture him and his family to-morrow.  The town-
clerk is full of zeal too.  We shall not be able to harm the child, but
it must be taken from the Jew and receive a Christian education.  It
would be our right to do this, even if both parents were Hebrews.  You
know the Freiburg case.  No less a personage than the great Ulrich Zasius
has decided, that Jewish children might be baptized without their
father's knowledge.  I beg you to send Father Anselm to the town-hall
on Saturday as a witness."

"Very well," replied the prelate, but he spoke with so little eagerness,
that it justly surprised the magistrate.  "Well then, catch the Jew; but
take him alive.  And one thing more!  I wish to see and speak to the
doctor, before you torture him."

"I will bring him to you day after to-morrow."  The Nurembergers! the
Nurembergers!...."  replied the abbot, shrugging his shoulders.

"What do you mean?"

"They don't hang any one till they catch him."  The magistrate regarded
these words as a challenge to put forth every effort for the Jew's
capture, so he answered eagerly: "We shall have him, Your Reverence, we
shall surely have him.  They are trapped in the snow.  The sergeants are
searching the roads; I shall summon your foresters and mine, and put them
under Count Frohlinger's command.  It is his duty to aid us.  What they
cannot find with their attendants, squires, beaters and hounds, is not
hidden in the forest.  Your blessing, Holy Father, there is no time to
lose."

The abbot was alone.

He gazed thoughtfully at the coals in the fireplace, recalling everything
he had just seen and heard, while his vivid power of imagination showed
him the learned, unassuming man, who had spent long years in quiet
seclusion, industriously devoting himself to the pursuit of knowledge.
A slight feeling of envy stole into his heart; how rarely he himself was
permitted to pursue undisturbed, and without interruption, the scientific
subjects, in which alone he found pleasure.

He was vexed with himself, that he could feel so little anger against a
criminal, whose guilt was deserving of death, and reproached himself for
lukewarmness.  Then he remembered that the Jew had sinned for love, and
that to him who has loved much, much should be forgiven.  Finally, it
seemed a great boon, that he was soon to be permitted to make the
acquaintance of the worthy doctor from Coimbra.  Never had the zealous
magistrate appeared so repulsive as to-day, and when he remembered how
the crafty man had outwitted poor Father Anselm in his presence, he felt
as if he had himself committed an unworthy deed.  And yet, yet--the Jew
could not be saved, and had deserved what threatened him.

A monk summoned him, but the abbot did not wish to be disturbed, and
ordered that he should be left an hour alone.

He now took in his hand a volume he called the mirror of his soul, and in
which he noted many things "for the confession," that he desired to
determine to his own satisfaction.  To-day he wrote:

"It would be a duty to hate a Jew and criminal, zealously to persecute
what Holy Church has condemned.  Yet I cannot do so.  Who is the
magistrate, and what are Father Anselm and this learned doctor!  The one
narrow-minded, only familiar with the little world he knows and in which
he lives, the others divinely-gifted, full of knowledge, rulers in the
wide domain of thought.  And the former outwits the latter, who show
themselves children in comparison with him.  How Anselm stood before him!
The deceived child was great, the clever man small.  What men call
cleverness is only small-minded persons' skill in life; simplicity is
peculiar to the truly great man, because petty affairs are too small for
him, and his eye does not count the grains of dust, but looks upward, and
has a share in the infinitude stretching before us.  Jesus Christ was
gentle as a child and loved children, he was the Son of God, yet
voluntarily yielded himself into the hands of men.  The greatest of great
men did not belong to the ranks of the clever.  Blessed are the meek, He
said.  I understand those words.  He is meek, whose soul is open, clear
and pure as a mirror, and the greatest philosophers, the noblest minds I
have met in life and history were also meek.  The brute is clever; wisdom
is the cleverness of the noble-minded.  We must all follow the Saviour,
and he among us, who unites wisdom to meekness, will come nearest to the
Redeemer."




CHAPTER IX.

Marx had gone out to reconnoitre in a more cheerful mood, for the doctor
had made good the loss sustained in the death of his old nag, and he
returned at noon with good news.

A wood-carrier, whom he met on the high-road, had told him where Jorg,
the charcoal-burner, lived.

The fugitives could reach his hut before night, and in so doing approach
nearer the Rhine valley.  Everything was ready for departure, but old
Rahel objected to travelling further.  She was sitting on a stone before
the hut, for the smoke in the narrow room oppressed her breathing, and it
seemed as if terror had robbed her of her senses.  Gazing into vacancy
with wild eyes and chattering teeth, she tried to make cakes and mould
dumplings out of the snow, which she probably took for flour.  She
neither heard the doctor's call nor saw his wife beckon, and when the
former grasped her to compel her to rise, uttered a loud shriek.  At last
the smith succeeded in persuading her to sit down on the sledge, and the
party moved forward.

Adam had harnessed himself to the front of the vehicle.  Marx went to and
fro, pushing when necessary.  The dumb woman waded through the snow by
her husband's side.  "Poor wife!"  he said once; but she pressed his arm
closer, looking up into his eyes as if she wished to say: "Surely I shall
lack nothing, if only you are spared to me!"

She enjoyed his presence as if it were a favor granted by destiny, but
only at chance moments, for she could not banish her fear for him, and
of the pursuers--her dread of uncertainty and wandering.

If snow rattled from a pine-tree, if she noticed Lopez turn his head, or
if old Rahel uttered a moan, she shuddered; and this was not unperceived
by her husband, who told himself that she had every reason to look
forward to the next few hours with grave anxiety.  Each moment might
bring imprisonment to him and all, and if they discovered--if it were
disclosed who he, who Elizabeth was.  .  .  .

Ulrich and Ruth brought up the rear, saying little to each other.

At first the path ascended again, then led down to the valley.  It had
stopped snowing long before, and the farther they went the lighter the
drifts became.

They had journeyed in this way for two hours, when Ruth's strength
failed, and she stood still with tearful, imploring eyes.  The charcoal-
burner saw it, and growled:

"Come  here, little  girl;  I'll carry you to the sleigh."

"No, let me," Ulrich eagerly interposed.  And Ruth exclaimed:

"Yes, you, you shall carry me."

Marx grasped her around the waist, lifted her high into the air, and
placed her in the boy's arms.  She clasped her hands around his neck, and
as he walked on pressed her fresh, cool cheek to his.  It pleased him,
and the thought entered his mind that he had been parted from her a long
time, and it was delightful to have her again.

His heart swelled more and more; he felt that he would rather have Ruth
than everything else in the world, and he drew her towards him as closely
as if an invisible hand were already out-stretched to take her from him.

To-day her dear, delicate little face was not pale, but glowed crimson
after the long walk through the frosty, winter air.  She was glad to have
Ulrich clasp her so firmly, so she pressed her cheek closer to his,
loosened her fingers from his neck, caressingly stroked his face with her
cold hand, and murmured:

"You are kind, Ulrich, and I love you!"

It sounded so tender and loving, that Ulrich's heart melted, for no one
had spoken to him so since his mother went away.

He felt strong and joyous, Ruth did not seem at all heavy, and when she
again clasped her hands around his neck, he said: "I should like to carry
you so always."

Ruth only nodded, as if the wish pleased her, but he continued:

"In the monastery I had no one, who was very kind to me, for even Lips,
well, he was a count--everybody is kind to you.  You don't know what it
is, to be all alone, and have to struggle against every one.  When I was
in the monastery, I often wished that I was lying under the earth; now I
don't want to die, and we will stay with you--father told me so--and
everything will be just as it was, and I shall learn no more Latin, but
become a painter, or smith-artificer, or anything else, for aught I care,
if I'm only not obliged to leave you again."

He felt Ruth raise her little head, and press her soft lips on his
forehead just over his eyes; then he lowered the arms in which she
rested, kissed her mouth, and said: "Now it seems as if I had my mother
back again!"

"Does it?"  she asked, with sparkling eyes.  "Now put me down.  I am well
again, and want to run."

So saying, she slipped to the ground, and he did not detain her.

Ruth now walked stoutly on beside the lad, and made him tell her about
the bad boys in the monastery, Count Lips, the pictures, the monks, and
his own flight, until, just as it grew dark, they reached the goal of
their walk.

Jorg, the charcoal-burner, received them, and opened his hut, but only to
go away himself, for though willing to give the fugitives shelter and act
against the authorities, he did not wish to be present, if the refugees
should be caught.  Caught with them, hung with them!  He knew the
proverb, and went down to the village, with the florins Adam gave him.

There was a hearth for cooking in the hut, and two rooms, one large and
one small, for in summer the charcoal-burners' wives and children live
with them.  The travellers needed rest and refreshment, and might have
found both here, had not fear embittered the food and driven sleep from
their weary eyes.

Jorg was to return early the next morning with a team of horses.  This
was a great consolation.  Old Rahel, too, had regained her self-control,
and was sound asleep.

The children followed her example, and at midnight Elizabeth slept too.

Marx lay beside the hearth, and from his crooked mouth came a strange,
snoring noise, that sounded like the last note of an organ-pipe, from
which the air is expiring.

Hours after all the others were asleep, Adam and the doctor still sat on
a sack of straw, engaged in earnest conversation.

Lopez had told his friend the story of his happiness and sorrow, closing
with the words:

"So you know who we are, and why we left our home.  You are giving me
your future, together with many other things; no gift can repay you; but
first of all, it was due you that you should know my past."

Then, holding out his hand to the smith, he asked: "You are a Christian;
will you still cleave to me, after what you have heard?"

Adam silently pressed the Jew's right hand, and after remaining lost in
thought for a time, said in a hollow tone:

"If they catch you, and--Holy Virgin--if they discover.....Ruth....She
is not really a Jew's child.....have you reared her as a Jewess?"

"No; only as a good human child."

"Is she baptized?"

Lopez answered this question also in the negative.  The smith shook his
head disapprovingly, but the doctor said: "She knows more about Jesus,
than many a Christian child of her age.  When she is grown up, she will
be free to follow either her mother or her father."

"Why have you not become a Christian yourself?  Forgive the question.
Surely you are one at heart."

"That, that....you see, there are things....Suppose that every male scion
of your family, from generation to generation, for many hundred years,
had been a smith, and now a boy should grow up, who said: I--I despise
your trade?'"

"If Ulrich should say: 'I-I wish to be an artist;' it would be agreeable
to me."

"Even if smiths were persecuted like us Jews, and he ran from your guild
to another out of fear?"

"No--that would be base, and can scarcely be compared with your case;
for see--you are acquainted with everything, even what is called
Christianity; nay, the Saviour is dear to you; you have already told me
so.  Well then!  Suppose you were a foundling and were shown our faith
and yours, and asked for which you would decide, which would you choose?"

"We pray for life and peace, and where peace exists, love cannot be
lacking, and yet!  Perhaps I might decide for yours."

"There you have it."

"No, no!  We have not done with this question so speedily.  See, I do not
grudge you your faith, nor do I wish to disturb it.  The child must
believe, that all its parents do and require of him is right, but the
stranger sees with different, keener eyes, than the son and daughter.
You occupy a filial relation towards your Church--I do not.  I know the
doctrine of Jesus Christ, and if I had lived in Palestine in his time,
should have been one of the first to follow the Master, but since, from
those days to the present, much human work has mingled with his sublime
teachings.  This too must be dear to you, for it belongs to your parents-
-but it repels me.  I have lived, labored and watched all night for the
truth, and were I now to come before the baptismal font and say 'yes' to
everything the priests ask, I should be a liar."

"They have caused you bitter suffering; tortured your wife, driven you
and your family from your home....."

"I have borne all that patiently," cried the doctor, deeply moved.
"But there are many other sins now committed against me and mine, for
which there is no forgiveness.  I know the great Pagans and their works.
Their need of love extends only to the nation, to which they belong, not
to humanity.  Unselfish justice, is to them the last thing man owes his
fellow-man.  Christ extended love to all nations, His heart was large
enough to love all mankind.  Human love, the purest and fairest of
virtues, is the sublime gift, the noble heritage, he left behind to his
brothers in sorrow.  My heart, the poor heart under this black doublet,
this heart was created for human love, this soul thirsted, with all its
powers, to help its neighbors and lighten their sorrows.  To exercise
human love is to be good, but they no longer know it, and what is worse,
a thousand times worse, they constantly destroy in me and mine the desire
to be good, good in the sense of their own Master.  Wordly wealth is
trash--to be rich the poorest happiness.  Yet the Jew is not forbidden to
strive for this, they take scarcely half his gains;--nor can they deny
him the pursuit of the pleasures of the intellect--pure knowledge--for
our minds are not feebler or more idle, and soar no less boldly than
theirs.  The prophets came from the East!  But the happiness of the soul
--the right to exercise charity is denied to us.  It is a part of charity
for each man to regard his neighbor as himself--to feel for him, as it
were, with his own heart--to lighten his burdens, minister unto him in
his sorrows, and to gladden his happiness.  This the Christian denies the
Jew.  Your love ceases when you meet me and mine, and if I sought to put
myself on an equality with the Christian, from the pure desire to satisfy
his Master's most beautiful lesson, what would be my fate?  The Jew is
not permitted to be good.  Not to be good!  Whoever imposes that upon his
brother, commits a sin for which I know no forgiveness.  And if Jesus
Christ should return to earth and see the pack that hunts us, surely He,
who was human love incarnate, would open His arms wide, wide to us, and
ask: 'Who are these apostles of hate?  I know them not!'"

The doctor paused, for the door had opened, and he rose with flushed face
to look into the adjoining room; but the smith held him back, saying:

"Stay, stay!  Marx went out into the open air.  Ah, Sir!  no doubt your
words are true, but were they Jews who crucified the Saviour?"

"And this crime is daily avenged," replied Lopez.  "How many wicked, how
many low souls, who basely squander divine gifts to obtain worthless
pelf, there are among my people!  More than half of them are stripped of
honor and dignity on your altar of vengeance, and thrust into the arms of
repulsive avarice.  And this, all this....But enough of these things!
They rouse my inmost soul to wrath, and I have other matters to discuss
with you."

The scholar now began to speak to the smith, like a dying man, about the
future of his family, told him where he had concealed his small property,
and did not hide the fact, that his marriage had not only drawn upon him
the persecution of the Christians, but the curse of his co-religionists.
He took it upon himself to provide for Ulrich, as if he were his own
child, should any misfortune befall the smith; and Adam promised, if he
remained alive and at liberty, to do the same for the doctor's wife and
daughter.

Meantime, a conversation of a very different nature was held before the
hut.

The poacher was sitting by the fire, when the door opened, and his name
was called.  He turned in alarm, but soon regained his composure, for it
was Jorg who beckoned, and then drew him into the forest.

Marx expected no good news, yet he started when his companion said:

"I know now, who the man is you have brought.  He's a Jew.  Don't try to
humbug me.  The constable from the city has come to the village.  The
man, who captures the Israelite, will get fifteen florins.  Fifteen
florins, good money.  The magistrate will count it, all on one board, and
the vicar says...."

"I don't care much for your priests," replied Marx.  "I am from
Weinsberg, and have found the Jew a worthy man.  No one shall touch him."

"A Jew, and a good man!"  cried Jurg, laughing.  "If you won't help, so
much the worse for you.  You'll risk your neck, and the fifteen florins.
....Will you go shares?  Yes or no?"

"Heaven's thunder!"  murmured the poacher, his crooked mouth watering."