“For heaven’s sake, Mr. Shund, be merciful,” entreated the wife. “We have saved up the interest with much trouble; every farthing of it you are to receive. For God’s sake, do not drive us from our home, Mr. Shund, we will gladly toil for you day and night. Take pity, Mr. Shund, do take pity on my poor children!”
“Stop your whining. Pay up, money alone has any value in my estimation—pay, all the rest is fudge. Pay up!”
“God knows, Mr. Shund,” sobbed the woman, wringing her hands, “I would give my heart’s blood to keep my poor children out of misery—with my life I would be willing to pay you. Oh! do have some commiseration, do be merciful! Almighty God will requite you for it.”
“Almighty God, nonsense! Don’t mention such stuff to me. Stupid palaver like that might go down with some bigoted fool, but it will not affect a man of enlightenment. Pay up, and there’s an end of it!”
“Is it your determination then, Mr. Shund, to cast us out mercilessly under the open sky?” inquired the countryman with deep earnestness.
“I only want what belongs to me. Pay over the thousand florins with the interest, and we shall be quits. That’s my position, you may go.”
In feeling words the woman once more appealed to Hans Shund. He remained indifferent to her pleading, and smiled scornfully whenever she adduced religious considerations to support her petition. Suddenly Holt took her by the arm and drew her towards the door.
“Say no more, wife, say no more, but come away. You could more easily soften stones than a man who has no conscience and does not believe in God.”
“There you have spoken the truth,” sneered Shund.
“You sneer, Mr. Shund,” and the man’s eyes glared. “Do you know to whom you owe it that your head is not broken?”