“Sileutium, turbatores!” cried the sleepy voice of the monk in charge, and the boys hastily drew back into the feathers and were silent.

The young count soon fell asleep again, but Ulrich buried his head still deeper among the pillows; it seemed as if he saw the mild, thoughtful face of the man, from whom he had received so much affection, gazing reproachfully at him; then the dumb wife appeared before his mind, and he fancied her soft hand was lovingly stroking his cheeks as usual.  Ruth also appeared, not in the yellow silk dress, but clad in rags of a beggar, and she wept, hiding her face in her mother’s lap.

He groaned aloud.  The clock struck eleven.  He rose and listened.  Nothing stirred, and slipping on his clothes, he took his shoes in his hand and tried to open the window at the head of his bed.  It had stood open during the day, but the frost fastened it firmly to the frame.  Ulrich braced his foot against the wall and pulled with all his strength, but it resisted one jerk after another; at last it suddenly yielded and flew open, making a slight creaking and rattling, but the monk on guard did not wake, only murmured softly in his sleep.

The boy stood motionless for a time, holding his breath, then swung himself upon the parapet and looked out.  The dormitory was in the second story of the monastery, above the rampart, but a huge bank of snow rose beside the wall, and this strengthened his courage.

With hurrying fingers he made the sign of the cross, a low:  “Mary, pray for me,” rose from his lips, then he shut his eyes and risked the leap.

There was a buzzing, roaring sound in his ears, his mother’s image blended in strange distortion with the Jew’s, then an icy sea swallowed him, and it seemed as if body and soul were frozen.  But this sensation overpowered him only a few minutes, then working his way out of the mass of snow, he drew on his shoes, and dashed as if pursued by a pack of wolves, down the mountain, through the ravine, across the heights, and finally along the river to the city and the Richtberg.

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     He was steadfast in everything, even anger

A WORD, ONLY A WORD

By Georg Ebers

Volume 2.

CHAPTER VIII.

The magistrate’s horses did not reach the city gate, from the monastery, more quickly than Ulrich.

As soon as the smith was roused from sleep by the boy’s knock and recognized his voice, he knew what was coming, and silently listened to the lad’s confessions, while he himself hurriedly yet carefully took out his hidden hoard, filled a bag with the most necessary articles, thrust his lightest hammer into his belt, and poured water on the glimmering coals.  Then, locking the door, he sent Ulrich to Hangemarx, with whom he had already settled many things; for Caspar, the juggler, who learned more through his daughters than any other man, had come to him the day before, to tell him that something was being plotted against the Jew.