"Money was paid," answered the grey-haired Jew; "he is safe, therefore. But he spent the night in chains, while his wife was here with you."
He spoke with a pregnant gravity. The Jewess started up and addressed him in a tongue Lucas could not understand. He saw that she pointed to him and to the bedroom and to the stairs, and that she spoke with heat. The old Jew heard her intently.
"So!" he said, in his deep voice. "Then we have more to thank you for than we thought. You gave up your rooms, it seems?"
"It is nothing," said Lucas. "You see, a lady—well, I could hardly—"
"Yes, I see," agreed the old Jew. "I have to do with a noble spirit. And you do not want any thanks? So? But we Jews, we have more things to give than thanks, and better things."
"I don't want anything," Lucas answered him. "I'm glad everything's all right."
"You are very good," said the old man, "very good and generous. But some day, perhaps, you will have a need—and then you will find that our people do not forget."
The Jewess had nothing to take with her but her child. She bowed her head and murmured something as she passed out, and the baby laughed at him.
"Our people do not forget," repeated the old Jew, as he bowed himself forth.
"Well," said Lucas, half aloud, when he was once more alone in his room, "that's finished, anyhow."