When he woke in the morning he found nearly all his fellow-passengers gone. One or two were waiting for dinner, nine o'clock; it was now six. He paid the landlady her demand, two pfenning, or about an English halfpenny, and he of the pitchfork demanded trinkgeld, and getting a trifle more than usual, and seeing Gerard eye a foaming milk-pail he had just brought from the cow, hoisted it up bodily to his lips. “Drink your fill, man,” said he, and on Gerard offering to pay for the delicious draught, told him in broad patois that a man might swallow a skinful of milk, or a breakfast of air, without putting hand to pouch. At the door Gerard found his benefactress of last night, and a huge-chested artisan, her husband. Gerard thanked her, and in the spirit of the age offered her a creutzer for her pudding. But she repulsed his hand quietly. “For what do you take me?” said she, colouring faintly; “we are travellers and strangers the same as you, and bound to feel for those in like plight.” Then Gerard blushed in his turn and stammered excuses. The hulking husband grinned superior to them both. “Give the vixen a kiss for her pudding, and cry quits,” said he, with an air impartial, judge-like and Jove-like. Gerard obeyed the lofty behest, and kissed the wife's cheek. “A blessing go with you both, good people,” said he. “And God speed you, young man!” replied the honest couple; and with that they parted, and never met again in this world. The sun had just risen: the rain-drops on the leaves glittered like diamonds. The air was fresh and bracing, and Gerard steered south, and did not even remember his resolve of overnight. Eight leagues he walked that day, and in the afternoon came upon a huge building with an enormous arched gateway and a postern by its side.