The man looked thoughtfully at his wife, and scratched his head. After a little he whispered, "It is not worth while to say anything about it; but you are right,--it is very strange. Deuce take the Hartwich! What business had she to kiss our child? There's something wrong about her." "Speak to the priest about it, and see what he thinks, but don't let the schoolmaster know that you do so. Go. Say you want some beer. The child is asleep now." The man slipped out as softly as he could upon his hob-nailed shoes, to consult the priest upon so grave a matter. CHAPTER IX. VOX POPULI, VOX DEI. When Keller, on his way to the priest, reached the village inn, he went in to refresh himself with a mug of beer, and found the priest whom he was seeking in the inn parlour, surrounded by a circle of auditors from the village and neighbouring farms. The Protestant pastor was also present, for the occurrence of the morning was a subject for universal discussion. The host was busy supplying the company with beer-mugs and bottles, secretly congratulating himself upon the accident that had brought him so much custom. "Ah, here is the poor father! Well, what news? How is she now?" were the words that greeted Keller's entrance. "Bad," he replied. "The child will be a cripple." A murmur of compassion was heard. Keller turned to the priest and asked to be permitted a word with him in private. His request was willingly granted. "Your reverence," began the peasant, "Columbane thinks the Hartwich has been the cause of all this." The priest clasped his hands. "What do I hear? Why does she think so?" Keller told him what had happened. The priest shook his head, and said in a loud voice to his Protestant brother, "Does it not seem, respected brother, as if we were forbidden by the visible finger of the Lord from holding any communication with this unholy woman, who has crept in among us like a poisonous serpent?" He then repeated, so that all could hear, what Keller had just told him. The Protestant divine, who was always in harmony with his colleague when there was a common enemy to do battle with, also considered the matter a very serious one. "It would of course be superstition to believe that the Hartwich had bewitched the child, but it stands written, 'Cursed are the ungodly,' and the curse must cleave to all who come in contact with any such." There was instantly a great commotion among the peasants drinking in the room. "This much is certain," cried the pastor with great emphasis, "that every misfortune comes, directly or indirectly, from the Hartwich!" "Yes, yes," resounded from all parts of the room. "Whom has she benefited in any way?" "No one, no one!"