The old man looked out of window--the goat's horns and beard caught his eye--it was the Devil himself, no doubt of it. "Let's get rid of him, money and all," thinks the old man; "I've lived before now without money, and now I'll go on living without it." So he took the pot of gold, carried it outside, flung it on the ground, and bolted indoors again as quickly as possible. The pope seized the pot of money, and hastened home. When he got back, "Come," says he, "the money is in our hands now. Here, mother, put it well out of sight, and take a sharp knife, cut the thread, and pull the goatskin off me before anyone sees it." She took a knife, and was beginning to cut the thread at the seam, when forth flowed blood, and the pope began to howl: "Oh! it hurts, mother, it hurts! don't cut mother, don't cut!" She began ripping the skin open in another place, but with just the same result. The goatskin had united with his body all round. And all that they tried, and all that they did, even to taking the money back to the old man, was of no avail. The goatskin remained clinging tight to the pope all the same. God evidently did it to punish him for his great greediness. A somewhat less heathenish story with regard to money is the following, which may be taken as a specimen of the Skazkas which bear the impress of the genuine reverence which the peasants feel for their religion, whatever may be the feelings they entertain towards its ministers. While alluding to this subject, by the way, it may be as well to remark that no great reliance can be placed upon the evidence contained in the folk-tales of any land, with respect to the relations between its clergy and their flocks. The local parson of folk-lore is, as a general rule, merely the innocent inheritor of the bad reputation acquired by some ecclesiastic of another age and clime. THE CROSS-SURETY.[35] Once upon a time two merchants lived in a certain town just on the verge of a stream. One of them was a Russian, the other a Tartar; both were rich. But the Russian got so utterly ruined by some business or other that he hadn't a single bit of property left. Everything he had was confiscated or stolen. The Russian merchant had nothing to turn to--he was left as poor as a rat.[36] So he went to his friend the Tartar, and besought him to lend him some money. "Get me a surety," says the Tartar. "But whom can I get for you, seeing that I haven't a soul belonging to me? Stay, though! there's a surety for you, the life-giving cross on the church!" "Very good, my friend!" says the Tartar. "I'll trust your cross. Your faith or ours, it's all one to me." And he gave the Russian merchant fifty thousand roubles. The Russian took the money, bade the Tartar farewell, and went back to trade in divers places.