The learned man no sooner heard this name than he smote violently with the palm of his hand on the volume of Macrobius lying open before him.
"'Quis hominum?'—What sort of a man is he?"
"An honest man!" cried Michal, with flashing eyes.
"What do you know about it? You only go by his outward appearance. 'Quanta especies sed cerebrum non habet'—a handsome face but no brains. 'Non bene casta caro quæ bene pasta caro'—Well fed, ill bred. But I have had occasion to learn something about the fellow's inner man. 'Flocci, nihili'—A feather brain, a nonentity. 'Classis primæ exultimis'—Always the first in his class, counting from the bottom. And how about his morals? He is a wine-bibber. 'Ubi vinum intrat, ibi ratio exit'—When the wine's in, the wit's out. He is a dancer and a serenader. He goes about with musicians and other lewd fellows. All that, indeed, might have been overlooked; but do you know what the trade of his parents was, ay, and still is? Did he confess that to you in his sinful correspondence? And this trade, remember, he must carry on to his dying day, for he does not know enough—far from it—to raise him to a higher rank. Do you know whose wife you would be if your senseless wish were to be fulfilled?"
The girl grew pale. There had been nothing said about this in the correspondence.
The professor took down his note-book and read out the name and description of the accused:
"'Parentes, Sarah, vidua macellarii'—Sarah, the butcher's widow. His father was a butcher, and he will be a butcher too. People who work in blood! What do you say to that? Can the daughter of the clergyman become the wife of a butcher? And when she has to choose between a man who tends the sheep of the Lord and a man who slaughters cattle, how can she possibly give her hand to the latter? Have I brought you up all these years only that your lot may be an eternal shedding of blood? To wake up with blood every day, and every day to lie down with blood! Every day to smell blood on the hand of him who embraces you! To be bound to a man whose calling in life it is to lay violent hands on God's creatures! Have you really the courage to choose such a lot?"
The mechanical dog wagged his tail and put out his tongue.
It seemed to Michal as if everything was turning round and round: the portraits of the scholars, the stuffed birds, even the skeleton with its clattering joints. How could she defend herself against so many?
The scholar saw from the corpse-like pallor of his daughter's face the crushing impression his words had produced upon her. It was in a much gentler voice that he now continued: