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.