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.

Tidings of Ulrich's disappearance and the Jew's flight had spread rapidly
through the monastery; the news was discussed in the choir, the school,
the stable and the kitchen; Father Anselm alone had heard nothing of the
matter, though he had been busy in the library before daybreak, and the
vexatious incident had been eagerly talked of there.

It was evident, that the elderly man cared little for anything that
happened in the world, outside of his manuscripts and printing. His
long, narrow head rested on a thin neck, which did not stand erect, but
grew out between the shoulders like a branch from the stem. His face was
grey and lined with wrinkles, like pumice-stone, but large bright eyes
lent meaning and attraction to the withered countenance.

At first he listened indifferently to the abbot's story, but as soon as
the Jew's name was mentioned, and he had read the diploma, as swiftly as
if he possessed the gift of gathering the whole contents of ten lines at
a single comprehensive glance, he said eagerly:

"Lopez, Doctor Lopez was here! And we did not know it, and have not
consulted with him! Where is he? What are people planning against him?"

After he had learned that the Jew had fled, and the abbot requested him