“Alles,” the peasant repeated to the girl. She put her hand in the pocket of her apron, brought it out full of coins and counted out the change. The peasant went out the door. As soon as he was gone the innkeeper came into the room again and spoke to the sexton. He sat down at the table. They talked in dialect. The sexton was amused. The innkeeper was disgusted. The sexton stood up from the table. He was a little man with a mustache. He leaned out of the window and looked up the road. “There he goes in,” he said. “In the Löwen?” “Ja.” They talked again and then the innkeeper came over to our table. The innkeeper was a tall man and old. He looked at John asleep. “He’s pretty tired.” “Yes, we were up early.” “Will you want to eat soon?” “Any time,” I said. “What is there to eat?” “Anything you want. The girl will bring the eating-card.” The girl brought the menu. John woke up. The menu was written in ink on a card and the card slipped into a wooden paddle. “There’s the speise-karte,” I said to John. He looked at it. He was still sleepy. “Won’t you have a drink with us?” I asked the innkeeper. He sat down. “Those peasants are beasts,” said the innkeeper. “We saw that one at a funeral coming into town.” “That was his wife.” “Oh.” “He’s a beast. All these peasants are beasts.” “How do you mean?” “You wouldn’t believe it. You wouldn’t believe what just happened about that one.” “Tell me.” “You wouldn’t believe it.” The innkeeper spoke to the sexton. “Franz, come over here.” The sexton came, bringing his little bottle of wine and his glass. “The gentlemen are just come down from the Wiesbadenerhütte,” the innkeeper said. We shook hands. “What will you drink?” I asked. “Nothing,” Franz shook his finger. “Another quarter litre?” “All right.” “Do you understand dialect?” the innkeeper asked. “No.” “What’s it all about?” John asked. “He’s going to tell us about the peasant we saw filling the grave, coming into town.” “I can’t understand it, anyway,” John said. “It goes too fast for me.” “That peasant,” the innkeeper said, “to-day he brought his wife in to be buried. She died last November.” “December,” said the sexton. “That makes nothing. She died last December then, and he notified the commune.” “December eighteenth,” said the sexton. “Anyway, he couldn’t bring her over to be buried until the snow was gone.” “He lives on the other side of the Paznaun,” said the sexton. “But he belongs to this parish.” “He couldn’t bring her out at all?” I asked. “No. He can only come, from where he lives, on skis until the snow melts. So to-day he brought her in to be buried and the priest, when he looked at her face, didn’t want to bury her. You go on and tell it,” he said to the sexton. “Speak German, not dialect.”