anxiety tortured me most, after they had released me and I was going back
to my house from the castle. It was a walk of two hours, but each one
seemed as long as St. John's day. Should I find Ulrich or not? What had
become of him? It was already dark, when I at last stood before the
house. Everything was as silent as the grave, and the door was locked.
Yet I must get in, so I rapped with my fingers, and then pounded with my
fist on the door and shutters, but all in vain. Finally Spittellorle--
[A nickname; literally: "Hospital Loura."]--came out of the red house
next mine, and I heard all. The old woman had become idiotic, and was in
the stocks. Ulrich was at the point of death, and Doctor Costa had taken
him home. When I heard this, I felt the same as you did just now; anger
seized upon me, and I was as much ashamed as if I were standing in the
pillory. My child with the Jew! There was not much time for reflection,
and I set off at full speed for the doctor's house. A light was shining
through the window. It was high above the street, but as it stood open
and I am tall, I could look in and see over the whole room. At the right
side, next the wall, was a bed, where amid the white pillows lay my boy.
The doctor sat by his side, holding the child's hand in his. Little
Ruth nestled to him, asking: 'Well, father?' The man smiled. Do you
know him, Pater? He is about thirty years old, and has a pale, calm
face. He smiled and said so gratefully, so-so joyously, as if Ulrich
were his own son: 'Thank God, he will be spared to us!' The little girl
ran to her dumb mother, who was sitting by the stove, winding yarn,
exclaiming:

'Mother, he'll get well again. I have prayed for him every day.' The
Jew bent over my child and pressed his lips upon the boy's brow--and I,
I--I no longer clenched my fist, and was so overwhelmed with emotion,
that I could not help weeping, as if I were still a child myself, and
since then, Pater Benedictus, since...." He paused; the monk rose, laid