“That is an insult to my mother; take it back.”  But Ruth heard and saw nothing; full of indignation she only felt that violence was being done her, and vainly struggled against the irresistible strength, which held her fast.

Meantime the door had opened wide, but neither noticed it until a man’s deep voice loudly and wrathfully exclaimed: 

“Back, you scoundrel!  Come here, Ruth.  This is the way the assassin greets his family; begone, begone! you disgrace of my house!”

Adam had uttered the words, and now drew the hammer from the belt of his leather apron.

Ulrich gazed mutely into his face.  There stood his father, strong, gigantic, as he had looked thirteen years before.  His head was a little bowed, his beard longer and whiter, his eyebrows were more bushy and his expression had grown more gloomy; otherwise he was wholly unchanged in every feature.

The son’s eyes rested on the smith as if spellbound.  It seemed as if some malicious fate had drawn him into a snare.

He could say nothing except, “father, father,” and the smith found no other answer than the harsh “begone!”

Ruth approached the armorer, clung to his side, and pleaded: 

“Hear him, don’t send him away so; he is your child, and if anger just now overpowered him. . . .”

“Spanish custom—­to abuse women!” cried Adam.  “I have no son Navarrete, or whatever the murderous monster calls himself.  I am a burgher, and have no son, who struts about in the stolen clothes of noblemen; as to this man and his assassins, I hate them, hate them all.  Your foot defiles my house.  Out with you, knave, or I will use my hammer.”

Ulrich again exclaimed, “father, father!” Then, regaining his self-control by a violent effort, he gasped: 

“Father, I came to you in good will, in love.  I am an honest soldier and if any one but you—­’Sdeath—­if any other had dared to offer me this. . . .”

“Murder the dog, you would have said,” interrupted the smith.  “We know the Spanish blessing:  a sandre, a carne!—­[Blood, murder.]—­Thanks for your forbearance.  There is the door.  Another word, and I can restrain myself no longer.”

Ruth had clung firmly to the smith, and motioned Ulrich to go.  The Eletto groaned aloud, struck his forehead with his clenched fist, and rushed into the open air.

As soon as Adam was alone with Ruth she caught his hand, exclaiming beseechingly: 

“Father, father, he is your own son!  Love your enemies, the Saviour commanded; and you. . . .”

“And I hate him,” said the smith, curtly and resolutely.  “Did he hurt you?”

“Your hate hurts me ten times as much!  You judge without examining; yes, father, you do!  When he assaulted me, he was in the right.  He thought I had insulted his mother.”

Adam shrugged his shoulders, and she continued “The poor woman is dead.  Ulrich brought you yonder ring; she never parted with it.”