“There was no need to earn his living—­to earn his living,” continued the monk, speaking slowly and carefully, and repeating the conclusion of his sentence, as if he were in the act of collating two manuscripts, “for Rodrigo was one of the wealthiest men in Portugal.  His son Lopez was rich, very rich in friends, and among them were numbered all to whom knowledge was dear.  Even among the Christians he had many friends.  Among us—­I mean in our library—­he also obtained great respect.  I owe him many a hint, much aid; I mean in referring me to rare books, and explaining obscure passages.  When he no longer visited us, I missed him sorely.  I am not curious; or do you think I am?  I am not curious, but I could not help inquiring about him, and then I heard very bad things.  Women are to blame for everything; of course it was a woman again.  A merchant from Flanders—­a Christian—­had settled in Porto.  The doctor’s father visited his house; but you probably know all this?”

“Of course! of course!” cried the magistrate.  “But go on with your story.”

“Old Doctor Rodrigo was the Netherlander’s physician, and closed his eyes on the death-bed.  An orphan was left, a girl, who had not a single relative in Porto.  They said—­I mean the young doctors and students who had seen her—­that she was pleasing, very pleasing to the eye.  But it was not on that account, but because she was orphaned and desolate, that the physician took the child—­I mean the girl.”

“And reared her as a Jewess?” interrupted the magistrate, with a questioning glance.

“As a Jewess?” replied the monk, excitedly.  “Who says so?  He did nothing of the sort.  A Christian widow educated her in the physician’s country-house, not in the city.  When the young doctor returned from Coimbra, he saw her there more than once—­more than once; certainly, more often than was good for him.  The devil had a finger in the matter.  I know, too, how they were married.  Before one Jew and two Christian witnesses, they plighted their troth to each other, and exchanged rings—­rings as if it were a Christian ceremony, though he remained a Jew and she a Christian.  He intended to go to the Netherlands with her, but one of the witnesses betrayed them—­denounced them to the Holy Inquisition.  This soon interposed of course, for there it interferes with everything, and in this case it was necessary; nay more—­a Christian duty.  The young wife was seized in the street with her attendant and thrown into prison; on the rack she entirely lost the power of speech.  The old physician and the doctor were warned in time, and kept closely concealed.  Through Chamberlain de Sa, her uncle—­or was it only her cousin?—­through de Sa the wife regained her liberty, and then I believe all three fled to France—­the father, son and wife.  But no, they must have come here. . . .”

“There you have it!” cried the magistrate, interrupting the monk, and glancing triumphantly at the prelate.  “An old practitioner scents crime, as a tree frog smells rain.  Now, for the first time, I can say with certainty:  We have him, and the worst punishment is too little for his deserts.  There shall be an unparalleled execution, something wonderful, magnificent, grand!  You have given me important information, and I thank you, Father.”