“It’s no sin—­no abomination!” replied the smith defiantly.

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: