I did not understand this, and requested him to tell me what he meant by sixteen hundred years. He replied: "If one may believe history, it is now sixteen hundred years since Jerusalem was destroyed, and I doubt not, venerable man, that you were already of age at its destruction. If what is said of you is true, you must have been born in the reign of Tiberius. I know that this matter is rather supposed than proved. The inhabitants of this place, however, believe you to be the shoemaker of Jerusalem, celebrated in history, who, since the time of Christ, has travelled about the world. Nevertheless, the more I look at you, the greater resemblance I find to an old friend of mine, who twelve years since perished on the top of a neighboring mountain." At these words, I looked carefully at my host. In a moment the fog was cleared from before my eyes. I saw before me my dear friend Abelin, in whose house, at Bergen, I had spent many happy days. I ran to his embrace with outstretched arms. "Then 'tis you, my dear Abelin! I can scarcely believe my eyes. Here you see Klim again, who has just returned from the subterranean world. I am the same, who twelve years since plunged into the mountain cave." He fell upon my neck and with tearful eyes, demanded where I had been and what had happened to me. I told him all that had occurred. At first he would not credit me; but afterwards he acknowledged that all must have been so, for I could never have invented such strange adventures. Abelin advised me not to repeat these things to others, and to keep myself secluded in his house. He told the people, who rushed to his house to see the "shoemaker of Jerusalem," that I had vanished; for he justly concluded this to be the best and most satisfactory answer he could make to an ignorant and superstitious peasantry. I remained in concealment until clothes, more suitable to the surface of the earth, than those I brought from below, were made, when Abelin reported me to be a relative of his, lately a student in Trondhjim, on a visit. He recommended me to the bishop of Bergen, who promised to me the first rectorship that should become vacant. This office was much to my taste, for it seemed to have a likeness to my former state, a school-master being a miniature of royalty. The rod may be likened to the sceptre; the desk to the throne. After waiting for a vacancy in vain, I determined, from necessity, to accept the first office I could get. At this time the sacristan of the church died; his place was offered to me by the bishop and accepted. An amusing promotion to one who had lately reigned over many great kingdoms. Nevertheless, since nothing is so ridiculous as poverty, and since it is foolish to throw away dirty water, before clean is at hand, I think it would have been still more laughable to have refused it. Fulfilling the duties of this office, I now live in philosophic ease.