“Once more I say,” interrupted Vögeli, “that all this is nothing to us. Let the princes do as they will; we are a free and independent people, and should take no part in their affairs.” “But we already belong to the German Empire,” some one objected. “Even so,” retorted Vögeli; “but that does not compel us to comply with all the Emperor’s demands. Let us not burn our fingers meddling with things that do not concern the safety of the Confederation.” “He is a poor citizen,” said old Hassfurter, “who will not help to extinguish the fire that is consuming his neighbor’s house. If the Burgundians treat Alsace in this manner, it will not be long before they attempt to crush us also. Might we not be added to the kingdom that is to be formed for Charles the Bold?” Thus the discussion went on, while below in the large public room the country folk who had assembled from far and near discussed the same subjects after their own fashion. Coarse as these peasants were in appearance, their great size and strength lent them an air of proud self-consciousness, and they wore their patched hose and jerkins and heavy hobnailed shoes with as much dignity as many a nobleman his silken doublet. Here, too, the conversation soon became heated, and frequent hostile glances were cast toward the Burgundian officer as well as his servant and the two soldiers at the other table; some even hummed to themselves the song Werni had been singing—which contained various contemptuous allusions to Burgundy and its Duke. These soldiers, who from their appearance might have been Switzers also, were in uniforms of fine gray cloth. They seemed to ignore the scoffs and jeers of the peasants, and as if in defiance of them, turned the sleeves of their jerkins about to show more plainly the badge of the Duke of Burgundy, a pair of dice, displaying the two spots and the five spots. At length, however, as the peasants became more and more audacious, one of the two imitated the lowing of a heifer. This form of insult was familiar to the Switzers and roused them to instant fury. One tall fellow rose, and crossing over to the table where the men in gray were sitting, intentionally stumbled over the legs of one of them, and assailed him with a torrent of abuse. The soldier merely shrugged his shoulders indifferently, which seemed to infuriate the peasant still more; with legs outspread, he planted himself before the Burgundian. “Truly!” he drawled, “that is a curious ornament you have there on your sleeve! Perchance there was not cloth enough and your lord put those dice on for patches!” “You scoundrel!” burst out the man in gray, “I will teach you respect for my noble master’s arms; and as for patches, look at your own jerkin, you Bärenhäuter[5]!” The bold mountaineer looked abashed, and was about to turn away without reply, when another Switzer strode to his side. “And those French words above your noble master’s arms, what do they signify?”