The moonlight and the reflection from the snow shone brightly through the
little window, but Ulrich longed for darkness, and buried his face in the
pillows. The clock in the steeple struck ten.

He raised himself and listened to the deep breathing of the sleepers on
his right and left, and the gnawing of a mouse under the bed.

His heart throbbed faster and more anxiously, but suddenly seemed to
stand still, for a low voice had called his name.

"Ulrich!" it whispered again, and the young count, who lay beside him,
rose in bed and bent towards him. Ulrich had told him about the word,
and often indulged in wishes with him, as he had formerly done with Ruth.
Philipp now whispered:

"They are going to attack the doctor. The abbot and magistrate
questioned us, as if it were a matter of life and death. I kept what
I know about the word to myself, for I'm sorry for the Jew, but Xaver,
spiteful fellow, made it appear as if you really possessed the spell,
and just now he came to me and said his father would seize the Jew early
to-morrow morning, and then he would be tortured. Whether they will hang
or burn him is the question. His life is forfeited, his father said--and
the black-visaged rascal rejoiced over it."

"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