Meantime, the abbot was sitting in his pleasantly-warmed study, which was pervaded by a faint, agreeable perfume, gazing now at the logs burning in the beautiful marble mantel-piece, and then at the magistrate, who had brought him strange tidings.

The prelate’s white woollen morning-robe clung closely around his stately figure.  Beside him lay, side by side, for comparison, two manuscript copies of his favorite book, the idyls of Theocritus, which, for his amusement, and to excel the translation of Coban Hesse, he was turning into Latin verse, as the duties of his office gave him leisure.

The magistrate was standing by the fire-side.  He was a thick-set man of middle height, with a large head, and clever but coarse features, as rudely moulded as if they had been carved from wood.  He was one of the best informed lawyers in the country, and his words flowed as smoothly and clearly from his strong lips, as if every thought in his keen brain was born fully matured and beautifully finished.

In the farthest corner of the room, awaiting a sign from his master, stood the magistrate’s clerk, a little man with a round head, and legs like the sickle of the waxing or waning moon.  He carried under his short arms two portfolios, filled with important papers.

“He comes from Portugal, and has lived under an assumed name?” So the abbot repeated, what he had just heard.

“His name is Lopez, not Costa,” replied the other; “these papers prove it.  Give me the portfolio, man!  The diploma is in the brown one.”

He handed a parchment to the prelate, who, after reading it, said firmly: 

“This Jew is a more important person than we supposed.  They are not lavish with such praise in Coimbra.  Are you taking good care of the doctor’s books Herr Conrad?  I will look at them to-morrow.”

“They are at your disposal.  These papers. . . .”

“Leave them, leave them.”

“There will be more than enough for the complaint without them,” said the magistrate.  “Our town-clerk, who though no student is, as you know, a man of much experience, shares my opinion.”  Then he continued pathetically:  “Only he who has cause to fear the law hides his name, only he, who feels guilty, flees the judge.”

A subtle smile, that was not wholly free from bitterness, hovered around the abbot’s lips, for he thought of the painful trial and the torture-chamber in the town hall, and no longer saw in the doctor merely the Jew, but the humanist and companion in study.

His glance again fell on the diploma, and while the other continued his representations, the prelate stretched himself more comfortably in his arm-chair and gazed thoughtfully at the ground.  Then, as if an idea had suddenly occurred to him, he touched his high forehead with the tips of his fingers, and suddenly interrupting the eager speaker, said: 

“Father Anselm came to us from Porto five years ago, and when there knew every one who understood Greek.  Go, Gutbub, and tell the librarian to come.”  The monk soon appeared.