rough his clenched teeth:

"That is an insult to my mother; take it back." But Ruth heard and saw
nothing; full of indignation she only felt that violence was being done
her, and vainly struggled against the irresistible strength, which held
her fast.

Meantime the door had opened wide, but neither noticed it until a man's
deep voice loudly and wrathfully exclaimed:

"Back, you scoundrel! Come here, Ruth. This is the way the assassin
greets his family; begone, begone! you disgrace of my house!"

Adam had uttered the words, and now drew the hammer from the belt of his
leather apron.

Ulrich gazed mutely into his face. There stood his father, strong,
gigantic, as he had looked thirteen years before. His head was a little
bowed, his beard longer and whiter, his eyebrows were more bushy and his
expression had grown more gloomy; otherwise he was wholly unchanged in
every feature.

The son's eyes rested on the smith as if spellbound. It seemed as if some
malicious fate had drawn him into a snare.

He could say nothing except, "father, father," and the smith found no
other answer than the harsh "begone!"

Ruth approached the armorer, clung to his side, and pleaded:

"Hear him, don't send him away so; he is your child, and if anger just
now overpowered him. . . ."

"Spanish custom--to abuse women!" cried Adam. "I have no son Navarrete,
or whatever the murderous monster calls himself. I am a burgher, and have
no son, who struts about in the stolen clothes of noblemen; as to this
man and his assassins, I hate them, hate them all. Your foot defiles my
house. Out with you, knave, or I will use my hammer."

Ulrich again exclaimed, "father, father!" Then, regaining his
self-control by a violent effort, he gasped:

"Father, I came to you in good will, in love. I am an honest soldier and
if any one but you--'Sdeath--if any other had dared to offer me this. . . ."

"Murder the dog, you would have said," interrupted the smith. "We know
the Spanish blessing: a sandre, a carne!--[Blood, murder.]--Thanks for
your forbearance. There is the door. Another word, and I can restrain
myself no longer."

Ruth had clung firmly to the smith, and motioned Ulrich to go. The Eletto
groaned aloud, struck his forehead with his clenched fist, and rushed
into the open air.

As soon as Adam was alone with Ruth she caught his hand, exclaiming
beseechingly:

"Father, father, he is your own son! Love your enemies, the Saviour
commanded; and