Surely Monsieur Gabriel would be pleased with that melody? Wilhelmine turned towards him, then half-consciousness returning told her she was not in Guestrow. Where was she? She moved, tried to sit up; on her brow a hand, cool and soothing, pressed her backwards, closing her aching eyes. Once more her thoughts sank downwards--flickered, as it were. What did it signify where she was, after all? Everything was far off. What scent was that? Wonderful! She drew it in to her lungs, and it seemed to fill her breast with fragrant freshness. With a sigh, she came back from some dim world and opened her eyes. A strange face bent over her and she stared wonderingly at it. Surely she was dreaming still, for it was the face of a picture she knew. Remembrance came, ere full consciousness grasped sway of her--Savonarola, the Monk of San Marco. She had seen a wood-cut portrait of the inspired fanatic in a book of Eberhard Ludwig's library. She lay, scarcely returned from her unconsciousness, gazing at this face. Yes, Savonarola! The powerful, broken brow, the small, piercing eyes, the rugged cheeks, the whole face dominated by the huge nose. Then full consciousness returned to her, and she saw that this was no fanatic genius, no monk of Italy, but an old woman with an extraordinary physiognomy, who was watching her with patient, kindly eyes. Wilhelmine sat up, pushing from her brow a cloth soaked in some essence, from whence came the delicious pungent scent which had recalled her from her trance. 'Where am I?' she asked. 'You are safe, and, I pray you, rest,' answered a hoarse, weak voice. 'I thank you,' Wilhelmine said, 'I will rest; but, at least, tell me where I am and who you are?' 'I am the widow of Ishakar Ben Hazzim, and you fainted at my door, so I took you in.' 'A very Christian action from a Jew, and I thank you,' replied Wilhelmine haughtily. All the unreasoning hatred of the Jewish race lay in her withdrawal from even ordinary gratitude towards the woman who had rescued her. The face above her darkened, and the kind eyes changed to flickering pin-points of anger. 'Christian? Nay, girl; it is Christian to be cruel! Christian? God of my fathers! it is Christian to murder and oppress! Did you not hear that I told you I am the widow of Ishakar Ben Hazzim, the son of Israel? and in my house, when I have anointed your head with rare essences to cool you from your sun-faint, you insult me, and you owe me no affront!' There was a pride in the woman's manner which appealed to Wilhelmine. 'Indeed, I meant none, and I thank you for your courtesy,' she said, and smiled. 'Well, rest you then,' replied the Jewess in a mollified tone; and again silence fell between the two women. 'Why do Jews hate the Christians?' Wilhelmine asked, after some time. She was interested, for this was a new and surprising view; partly, too, she asked the question from lazy curiosity. 'Hate them? Would not you?' returned the woman harshly.