“We have no other room to give you,” said Adam, pointing to the boy; but the monk was content with his sleeping companions, and after his host had left him, gazed earnestly at Ulrich’s fresh, handsome face.

The smith’s story had moved him, and he did not go to rest at once, but paced thoughtfully up and down the room, stepping lightly, that he might not disturb the child’s slumber.

Adam had reason to be grateful to the man, and why should there not be good Jews?

He thought of the patriarchs, Moses, Solomon, and the prophets, and had not the Saviour himself, and John and Paul, whom he loved above all the apostles, been the children of Jewish mothers, and grown up among Jews?  And Adam! the poor fellow had had more than his share of trouble, and he who believes himself deserted by God, easily turns to the devil.  He was warned now, and the mischief to his son must be stopped once for all.  What might not the child hear from the Jew, in these times, when heresy wandered about like a roaring lion, and sat by all the roads like a siren.  Only by a miracle had this secluded valley been spared the evil teachings, but the peasants had already shown that they grudged the nobles the power, the cities the rich gains, and the priesthood the authority and earthly possessions, bestowed on them by God.  He was disposed to let mildness rule, and spare the Jew this time—­but only on one condition.

When he took off his cowl, he looked for a hook on which to hang it, and while so doing, perceived on the shelf a row of boards.  Taking one down, he found a sketch of an artistic design for the enclosure of a fountain, done by the smith’s hand, and directly opposite his bed a linden-wood panel, on which a portrait was drawn with charcoal.  This roused his curiosity, and, throwing the light of the torch upon it, he started back, for it was a rudely executed, but wonderfully life-like head of Costa, the Jew.  He remembered him perfectly, for he had met him more than once.

The monk shook his head angrily, but lifted the picture from the shelf and examined more closely the doctor’s delicately-cut nose, and the noble arch of the brow.  While so doing, he muttered unintelligible words, and when at last, with little show of care, he restored the modest work of art to its old place, Ulrich awoke, and, with a touch of pride, exclaimed: 

“I drew that myself, Father!”

“Indeed!” replied the monk.  “I know of better models for a pious lad.  You must go to sleep now, and to-morrow get up early and help your father.  Do you understand?”

So saying, with no gentle hand he turned the boy’s head towards the wall.  The mildness awakened by Adam’s story had all vanished to the winds.

Adam allowed his son to practise idolatry with the Jew, and make pictures of him.  This was too much.  He threw himself angrily on his couch, and began to consider what was to be done in this difficult matter, but sleep soon brought his reflections to an end.