"They always adjudge it again to the first winner." But the young man was reckless.
"Why did not the captain stop us, then?" he asked.
"Keep thy tongue between thy dog's teeth," retorted the Judge. "In any event the race must be run again, for the law ordains eight runners as a minimum."
"We are eight," replied the young Jew.
The Judge glared at the rebel; then, striking each rueful object with a stick, he counted out, "One—two—three—four—five—six—seven!"
"Eight," persisted the young man, perceiving for the first time the old Jew on the ground behind him, and stooping to raise him.
"That creature! Basta! He does not count. He is drunk."
"Thou hell-begotten hound!" and straightening himself suddenly, the young Jew drew a crucifix from within his cloak. "Thou art right!" he cried in a voice of thunder. "There are only seven Jews, for I—I am no Jew. I am Fra Giuseppe!" And the crucifix whirled round, clearing a space of awe about him.
The Judge cowered back in surprise and apprehension. The soldiers sat their horses in stony amazement, the seething crowd was stilled for a moment, struck to silent attention. The shower had ceased and a ray of watery sunlight glistened on the crucifix.
"In the name of Christ I denounce this devil's mockery of the Lord's chosen people," thundered the Dominican. "Stand back all. Will no one bring this poor old man a cup of cold water?"