"Fool that you are!" exclaimed Ephraim, laughing in contempt. "You are speculating on your epitaph, while the fortune of your life slips away from you. Take my advice: there is yet time to secure your future."
"Never, if it is to be accomplished by frauds!"
"Think of your daughter."
A painful quivering flitted across Gotzkowsky's face. "Who gives you a right to remind me of her?" asked he angrily. "Do not soil her name by pronouncing it. I have nothing in common with you."
"Yes, you have, though," said Ephraim with a wicked smile. "You have done me a good deed, and I am thankful. That is something in common."
Gotzkowsky did not answer him. He crossed the room hastily, and stepped to his writing-table, out of a secret drawer of which he drew a dark-red case. He opened it and snatched out the diamond ring that was contained in it.
"I do not wish your gratitude," said he, turning to Ephraim, anger flashing from his countenance—"and if you could offer me all the treasures of the world, I would throw them to the earth, as I do this ring!" And he cast down the costly jewel at Ephraim's feet.
The latter raised it coolly from the ground and examined it carefully. He then broke out into a loud, scornful laugh. "This is the ring which the Jews presented to you when you procured our exemption from the war-tax. You give it to me?"
"I give it to you, and with it a curse on the tempter of my honor!"
"You repulse me, then? You will have none of my gratitude?"