"Say rather an ape among lynxes, who will spy thee out," said Joseph, more hotly. "Thy double-dealing will be discovered, and I shall become the laughing-stock of the congregation."
It was the beginning of a second quarrel—fiercer, bitterer than the first. Joseph denounced Uriel privily to Dom Diego, who thundered at the heretic in his turn.
"I give not my daughter to an ape," he retorted, when Uriel had expounded himself as usual.
"Ianthe loves the ape; 'tis her concern," Uriel was stung into rejoining.
"Nay, 'tis my concern. By Heaven, I'll grandsire no gorillas!"
"Methinks in Porto thou wast an ape thyself," cried Uriel, raging.
"Dog!" shrieked the old physician, his venerable countenance contorted; "dost count it equal to deceive the Christians and thine own brethren?" And he flung from the house.
Uriel wrote to Ianthe. She replied—
"I asked thee to make thy peace. Thou hast made bitterer war. I cannot fight against my father and all Israel. Farewell!"
Uriel's face grew grim: the puckers in his brow that her fingers had touched showed once more as terrible lines of suffering; his teeth were clenched. The old look of the hunted man came back. He took out her first note, which he kept nearest his heart, and re-read it slowly—