“Oh!” answered the Jew, “I would to God thou hadst shot, though the arrow had pierced her bosom!⁠—Better the tomb of her fathers than the dishonourable couch of the licentious and savage Templar. Ichabod! Ichabod! the glory hath departed from my house!”

“Friends,” said the Chief, looking round, “the old man is but a Jew, natheless his grief touches me.⁠—Deal uprightly with us, Isaac⁠—will paying this ransom of a thousand crowns leave thee altogether penniless?”

Isaac, recalled to think of his worldly goods, the love of which, by dint of inveterate habit, contended even with his parental affection, grew pale, stammered, and could not deny there might be some small surplus.