He could say nothing except, "father, father," and the smith found no other answer than the harsh "begone!"
Ruth approached the armorer, clung to his side, and pleaded:
"Hear him, don't send him away so; he is your child, and if anger just now overpowered him. . . ."
"Spanish custom—to abuse women!" cried Adam. "I have no son Navarrete, or whatever the murderous monster calls himself. I am a burgher, and have no son, who struts about in the stolen clothes of noblemen; as to this man and his assassins, I hate them, hate them all. Your foot defiles my house. Out with you, knave, or I will use my hammer."
Ulrich again exclaimed, "father, father!" Then, regaining his self-control by a violent effort, he gasped:
"Father, I came to you in good will, in love. I am an honest soldier and if any one but you—'Sdeath—if 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. . . ."