“Trust not to that, Isaac,” said Front-de-Boeuf, “it were a fatal error. Dost thou think that I, who have seen a town sacked, in which thousands of my Christian countrymen perished by sword, by flood, and by fire, will blench from my purpose for the outcries or screams of one single wretched Jew?⁠—or thinkest thou that these swarthy slaves, who have neither law, country, nor conscience, but their master’s will⁠—who use the poison, or the stake, or the poniard, or the cord, at his slightest wink⁠—thinkest thou that they will have mercy, who do not even understand the language in which it is asked?⁠—Be wise, old man; discharge thyself of a portion of thy superfluous wealth; repay to the hands of a Christian a part of what thou hast acquired by the usury thou hast practised on those of his religion. Thy cunning may soon swell out once more thy shrivelled purse, but neither leech nor medicine can restore thy scorched hide and flesh wert thou once stretched on these bars. Tell down thy ransom, I say, and rejoice that at such rate thou canst redeem thee from a dungeon, the secrets of which few have returned to tell. I waste no more words with thee⁠—choose between thy dross and thy flesh and blood, and as thou choosest, so shall it be.”