f 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 you...."

"And I hate him," said the smith, curtly and resolutely. "Did he hurt
you?"

"Your hate hurts me ten times as much! You judge without examining; yes,
father, you do! When he assaulted me, he was in the right. He thought I
had insulted his mother."

Adam shrugged his shoulders, and she continued "The poor woman is dead.
Ulrich brought you yonder ring; she never parted with it."

The armorer started, seized the golden hoop, looked for the date inside,
and when he had found it, clasped the ring in his hands and pressed them
silently to his temples. He stood in this attitude a short time, then
let his arms fall, and said softly:

"The dead must be forgiven...."

"And the living, father? You have punished him terribly, and he is not a
wicked man, no, indeed he is not! If he comes back again, father?"

"My apprentices shall show the Spanish mutineer the door," cried the
old man in a harsh, stern tone; "to the burgher's repentant son my house
will be always open."

Meantime the Eletto wandered from one street to another. He felt
bewildered, disgraced.

It was not grief--no quiet heartache that disturbed--but a confused
blending of wrath and sorrow. He did not wish to appear before the
friend of his youth, and even avoided Hans Eitelfritz, who came towards
him. He was blind to the gay, joyous bustle of the capital; life seemed
grey and hollow. His intention of communicating with the commandant
of the citadel remained unexecuted; for he thought of nothing but his
father's anger, of Ruth, his own shame and misery.

He could not leave so.

His father must, yes, he must hear him, and when it grew dusk, he again
sought the house to which he belonged, and from which he had been so
cruelly expelled.

The door was locked. In reply to his knock, a man's unfamiliar voice
asked who he was, and what he wanted.