Ephraim shrugged his shoulders.  “The people are weathercocks; they will stone to-morrow the same men whom they bless to-day.  Only wait until public opinion has condemned you, and the people, too, will forsake you.  Protect yourself, then, against men.  When you were rich, every one partook of your liberality; now that you are poor, no one will be willing to share your misfortune.  Therefore save yourself, I tell you.  Collect whatever papers and valuables you may have.  Give them to me.  By the God of my fathers I will preserve them faithfully and honestly for you!”

Gotzkowsky repulsed him with scorn, and indignant anger flashed from his countenance.  “Back from me, tempter!” cried he, proudly.  “It is true you possess the wisdom of the world, but one thing is wanting in your wisdom—­the spirit of honor.  I know that this does not trouble you much, but to me it is every thing.  You are right:  I will be a beggar, and men will point at me with their finger, and laugh me to scorn.  But I will pass them by proudly, nor will I bend my head before them, for my dignity and honor as a man are unconnected with gold or property.  These are my own, and when I die, on my tomb will be written—­’He died in poverty, but he was an honorable man.’”

“Fool that you are!” exclaimed Ephraim, laughing in contempt.  “You are speculating on your epitaph, while the fortune of your life slips away from you.  Take my advice:  there is yet time to secure your future.”

“Never, if it is to be accomplished by frauds!”

“Think of your daughter.”

A painful quivering flitted across Gotzkowsky’s face.  “Who gives you a right to remind me of her?” asked he angrily.  “Do not soil her name by pronouncing it.  I have nothing in common with you.”

“Yes, you have, though,” said Ephraim with a wicked smile.  “You have done me a good deed, and I am thankful.  That is something in common.”

Gotzkowsky did not answer him.  He crossed the room hastily, and stepped to his writing-table, out of a secret drawer of which he drew a dark-red case.  He opened it and snatched out the diamond ring that was contained in it.

“I do not wish your gratitude,” said he, turning to Ephraim, anger flashing from his countenance—­“and if you could offer me all the treasures of the world, I would throw them to the earth, as I do this ring!” And he cast down the costly jewel at Ephraim’s feet.

The latter raised it coolly from the ground and examined it carefully.  He then broke out into a loud, scornful laugh.  “This is the ring which the Jews presented to you when you procured our exemption from the war-tax.  You give it to me?”

“I give it to you, and with it a curse on the tempter of my honor!”

“You repulse me, then?  You will have none of my gratitude?”

“Yes; if your hand could save me from the abyss, I would reject it!”

“Let it be so, then,” said Ephraim; and his face assumed an expression of hatred and malice—­for now it could be perceived that the rich Ephraim was again overcome by Gotzkowsky, although the latter was a poor and shattered man.  His sympathy and his help had only met with a proud refusal from him whom he had not succeeded in humbling and dragging down to the dust.