“Ay, reverend valorous sir,” stammered poor Isaac, “and whatsoever ransom a poor man may pay for her deliverance—”
“Peace!” said the Grand Master. “This thy daughter hath practised the art of healing, hath she not?”
“Ay, gracious sir,” answered the Jew, with more confidence; “and knight and yeoman, squire and vassal, may bless the goodly gift which Heaven hath assigned to her. Many a one can testify that she hath recovered them by her art, when every other human aid hath proved vain; but the blessing of the God of Jacob was upon her.”
Beaumanoir turned to Mont-Fitchet with a grim smile. “See, brother,” he said, “the deceptions of the devouring enemy! Behold the baits with which he fishes for souls, giving a poor space of earthly life in exchange for eternal happiness hereafter. Well said our blessed rule, Semper percutiatur leo vorans .—Up on the lion! Down with the destroyer!” said he, shaking aloft his mystic abacus, as if in defiance of the powers of darkness—“Thy daughter worketh the cures, I doubt not,” thus he went on to address the Jew, “by words and sighs, and periapts, and other cabalistical mysteries.”
“Nay, reverend and brave Knight,” answered Isaac, “but in chief measure by a balsam of marvellous virtue.”
“Where had she that secret?” said Beaumanoir.
“It was delivered to her,” answered Isaac, reluctantly, “by Miriam, a sage matron of our tribe.”
“Ah, false Jew!” said the Grand Master; “was it not from that same witch Miriam, the abomination of whose enchantments have been heard of