"He comes from Portugal, and has lived under an assumed name?" So the
abbot repeated, what he had just heard.

"His name is Lopez, not Costa," replied the other; "these papers prove
it. Give me the portfolio, man! The diploma is in the brown one."

He handed a parchment to the prelate, who, after reading it, said firmly:

"This Jew is a more important person than we supposed. They are not
lavish with such praise in Coimbra. Are you taking good care of the
doctor's books Herr Conrad? I will look at them to-morrow."

"They are at your disposal. These papers. . . ."

"Leave them, leave them."

"There will be more than enough for the complaint without them," said
the magistrate. "Our town-clerk, who though no student is, as you know,
a man of much experience, shares my opinion." Then he continued
pathetically: "Only he who has cause to fear the law hides his name,
only he, who feels guilty, flees the judge."

A subtle smile, that was not wholly free from bitterness, hovered around
the abbot's lips, for he thought of the painful trial and the torture-
chamber in the town hall, and no longer saw in the doctor merely the Jew,
but the humanist and companion in study.

His glance again fell on the diploma, and while the other continued his
representations, the prelate stretched himself more comfortably in his