thering 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
to tell all he knew about the doctor, he collected his thoughts and
sorrowfully began:

"To be sure, to be sure; the man committed a great offence. He is a great
sinner in God's eyes. You know his guilt?"

"We know everything," cried the magistrate, with a meaning glance at the
prelate. Then, as if he sincerely pitied the criminal, he continued with
well-feigned sympathy: "How did the learned man commit such a misdeed?"

The abbot understood the stratagem, but Anselm's words could not be
recalled, and as he himself desired to learn more of the doctor's
history, he asked the monk to tell what he knew.

The librarian, in his curt, dry manner, yet with a warmth unusual to him,
described the doctor's great learning and brilliant intellect, saying
that his father, though a Jew, had been in his way an aristocratic man,
allied with many a noble family, for until the reign of King Emanuel, who
persecuted the Hebrews, they had enjoyed great distinction in Portugal.
In those days it had been hard to distinguish Jews from Christians. At
the time of the expulsion a few favored Israelites had been allowed to
stay, among them the worthy Rodrigo, the doctor's father, who had been
the king's physician and was held in high esteem by the sovereign. Lopez
obtained the highest honors at Coimbra, but instead of following
medicine, like his father, devoted himself to the humanities.

"There was no need to earn his living--to earn his living," continued the
monk, speaking slowly and carefully, and repeating the conclusion of his
sentence, as if he were in the act of collating two manuscripts, "for
Rodrigo was one of the wealthiest men in Portugal. His son Lopez was
rich, very rich in friends, and among them were numbered all to whom
knowledge was dear. Even among the Christians he had many friends. Among
us--I mean in our library--he also obtained great respect. I owe him many
a hint, much aid; I mean in referring me to rare books, and explaining
obscure passages. When he no longer visited us, I missed him sorely. I am
not curious; or do you think I am? I am not curious, but I could not help
inquiring about him, and then I heard very bad