This is the way the assassin greets his family; begone, begone! you disgrace of my house!" Adam had uttered the words, and now drew the hammer from the belt of his leather apron.
Ulrich gazed mutely into his face.

There stood his father, strong, gigantic, as he had looked thirteen years before.

His head was a little bowed, his beard longer and whiter, his eyebrows were more bushy and his expression had grown more gloomy; otherwise he was wholly unchanged in every feature.
The son's eyes rested on the smith as if spellbound.

It seemed as if some malicious fate had drawn him into a snare.
He could say nothing except, "father, father," and the smith found no other answer than the harsh "begone!" Ruth approached the armorer, clung to his side, and pleaded: "Hear him, don't send him away so; he is your child, and if anger just now overpowered him...." "Spanish custom--to abuse women!" cried Adam.

"I have no son Navarrete, or whatever the murderous monster calls himself.