“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.