He was clearly aware that he had mingled his teacher's words with the poacher's blasphemous sayings, and also that he had put the latter into the mouth of Ruth's father.
He was a traitor, a liar, a miserable scoundrel!
He wished to go to the abbot and confess all, yet dared not, and so the hours stole away until the time for the evening mass.
While in church he strove to pray, not only for himself but for the doctor, but in vain, he could think of nothing but the trial, and while kneeling with his hands over his eyes, saw the Jew in fetters before him, and he himself at the trial in the town-hall.
At last the mass ended.
Ulrich rose. Just before him hung the large crucifix, and the Saviour on the cross, who with his head bowed on one side, usually gazed so gently and mournfully upon the ground, to-day seemed to look at him with mingled reproach and accusation.
In the dormitory, his companions avoided him as if he had the plague, but he scarcely noticed it.
The moonlight and the reflection from the snow shone brightly through the little window, but Ulrich longed for darkness, and buried his face in the pillows. The clock in the steeple struck ten.
He raised himself and listened to the deep breathing of the sleepers on his right and left, and the gnawing of a mouse under the bed.
His heart throbbed faster and more anxiously, but suddenly seemed to stand still, for a low voice had called his name.