THE MERCHANT. See how he cowers when we look at him.
THE MONK. He is no Jew. On this thrice-blessed night
No Jew would dare seek shelter in Christ's house.
THE PEASANT. Yet they are daring—and men tell strange tales
Of bloody rites which they perform apart.
THE SOLDIER. May God's high curse rest on their scattered race!
[The Jew flashes a quick glance upon them, and then looks down again. An unusually strong gust of wind sweeps through the hall, and strange moanings are heard in the chimney.]
THE PEASANT. Lost souls! Oh, Mother of Christ!
THE MERCHANT. They wail in pain.
THE MONK [making the sign of the cross]. 'Tis but the wind—or on this
night mayhap
We hear the noise of vast angelic hosts
That sob to see our Saviour come to earth,
A simple Babe, to suffer and to die—
So brother Anselm tells.
THE SOLDIER. And what knows he
Of angels' doings?
THE MONK [terrified.] Still! Thou impious man!
Hast thou not heard the fame of Anselm's name?
A very saint on earth, his eyes behold
Things hidden from mankind; his face doth glow
All radiant from his visions.