"'Tis no good to me," said the latter, giving it back, after holding it against the light; "nothing but holes."
"But my wife has no other," said the man: "'tis her last stitch of clothes, except her petticoat and a blanket. I've brought everything else to you."
The Jew shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands, in token that he could not help it.
"I swear 'tis her last!" reiterated the man, as if he really fancied this fact must give the garment as much value in the Jew's eyes as in his own.
"I tell you I won't have it!" said the Jew, testily.
"Give me only a loaf for it, or but one pound of potatoes," said the soldier: "'tis more than my wife and four children have had among them for two days. Half-rations for one, among six of us, is too hard to live."
"A pound of potatoes," said the Jew, "is worth four reals and a-half—eighteenpence; your wife's gown is worth—nothing!"
"Then take this," said the man, beginning frantically to pull off his uniform coat; "anything is better than starving."
The Jew laughed. "What!" said he, "you think I don't know better than to buy a soldier's necessaries, eh? Ah, ah! no such a fool, I think, my friend. What your captain say?—eh?"
The man struck his hand violently on the table. "Then give me—or lend me," said he, "some food, much or little, and I'll work for you every hour I'm off duty till you're satisfied. I will, Mr Lazaro, so help me God!"