“Aye, leave me alone in disposing of this matter. I’ve a little case in law, which, for my brother’s sake, I shall set afoot. Gutenberg is culpably careless of money. It is shocking to see one thus making shipwreck of conscience. Of the 2,020 florins which I lent him, he has not returned one obolus. He has not even paid the interest.” “He has not!” exclaimed Peter. “What can he be thinking of?” “Of himself,” replied Faust. “As long as he has money, what cares he who goes without? I can only do business in a business way; and I shall immediately call him to account; and, Master Schoeffer, our firm shall be established on a firm basis.” Poor Peter was too well pleased with Faust’s flatteries, and, yielding to the stronger will of his host, had listened to adroit insinuations against Gutenberg until his heart grew hard. The Doctor was quick at reading character, and knew how to turn Peter’s interest in Christiane to account, and, when his guest rose to leave, said,-- “But, Master Schoeffer, you are by far too industrious. You are worn with work, and need relaxation. You ought at least to devote these magnificent moonlight evenings to recreation. My boat is always at your service, and here’s Christiane--if you cannot find better company--give her an airing on our beautiful river.” Schoeffer had often raised his eyes from his work to glance at the lovely vision of Christiane, as she flitted by on her morning rambles; but, proud and retiring, had felt the pecuniary distance there was between her father and himself; and though he sometimes fancied she was not indifferent to his admiration, they had not until that evening spoken together. It seemed like a dream; for now in her presence her father had lavished attentions upon him, and predicted for him fame and fortune. The next morning, Gutenberg, in order to urge on the work, early toiled at the press-work of the Bible; for so slow and laborious was the process that comparatively few copies were completed. “Good-morning, Peter,” said he, unsuspicious of evil, as Schoeffer entered, and a workman took his place at the press. “You have not told me by what proportion of metals you have secured the requisite strength and softness of type.” “Excuse me, Master,” replied Peter with half averted face, “let me keep that little secret. I may have to try again.” Gutenberg was grieved by the answer as only a noble and sensitive mind can be by the slights of one who has been nourished like a child. He resumed his work, while the foreboding of the approaching storm fell on his spirit like a dark shadow.