His was the first case.  “Your name?” said Brother Hyacinth, and was answered “Giovanni-Battista-Maria-Bentivoglio.”

“Write,” said Brother Hyacinth to his clerk, “Jew, name unknown, active liar.”  This done, he continued his questions.

“Your means?”

“Alas, none,” replied the Jew.

“Search him,” said Brother Hyacinth.

The clerk thereupon turned out his pockets, which were empty of everything but holes.  Not content with that, however, he felt all over his body, and when he had, as I may say, drawn all the coverts blank, knelt down and pulled off the man’s shoes.  The Jew was unable to repress an exclamation, which I naturally set down to his disgust at the indignity.  But I found that this was not so.  The clerk very neatly picked out a small key from between his toes and held it up to his master.

“I thought as much,” said Brother Hyacinth.  “Go.”  The young Jew sighed, shrugged, and stood back without a word; and while I was considering what his imposture could have been it was my turn.

Brother Hyacinth examined me with keen displeasure.  “Who are you?” he asked me.  I told him “Francesco-Antonio Strelli”—­and he bade the clerk write these names down.  “Nationality?” he asked next.  I told him “Inglese.”  One of the friars, that evil, bearded fellow, I noticed, had drawn near and was listening with all his might.  Now it was to be noticed of him that he breathed very short and fast, and that his breath struck like fire upon my skin.  The interrogatory was renewed.

“Your place of immediate origin?” I was asked.

I said, “Padua.”

“Your present occupation?”

“Repentance,” I said, and spoke the truth.

“Your means of support?”

“Grace,” said I, and he stamped on the ground.

“You are trifling with me—­I advise you to take care.  Answer me truthfully of what you repent.”

This angered me.  I told him shortly that, like everybody else in the world of my way of thinking, I repented of sin.

He turned to his amanuensis.  “Write down that the young man refuses to give an account of himself,” he said harshly; and then asked me what I wanted of the hospital.

I said with heat, “My brother, I had required of it what I now see I am not to expect, charity, namely, both of judgment and act.  I am afflicted, as you ought to have seen at once; I need your wisdom—­but need most your sympathy—­” To my amazement he cut me short, as he had done with the Jew, by the brief command, “Search him.”  I recoiled as well as I could in my fainting and helpless condition.

“Do you dare insult a sick man?” I cried; and to the clerk, who was about to put me to this indignity, I said, “Touch me at your peril, sir; for though I die for it, you will pay for your temerity.”