_The Hemp-dresser_: “Ah ha! so you are pilgrims? You never told us that. And what pilgrimage do you come from, may I ask?” _The Grave-digger_: “We shall tell you that when you open the door, for we come from so far that you would never believe it.” _The Hemp-dresser_: “Open the door to you? I rather think not. We can’t trust you. Tell us, is it from Saint Sylvain of Pouligny that you come?” _The Grave-digger_: “We have been at Saint Sylvain of Pouligny, but we have been farther still.” _The Hemp-dresser_: “Then you have been as far as Saint Solange?” _The Grave-digger_: “At Saint Solange we have been, sure enough, but we have been farther yet.” _The Hemp-dresser_: “You are lying. You have never been as far as Saint Solange.” _The Grave-digger_: “We have been farther, for now we are come from Saint Jacques of Compostelle.” _The Hemp-dresser_: “What absurdity are you telling us? We don’t know that parish. We can easily see that you are bad people, brigands, nobodies, and liars. Go away with your nonsense. We are on our guard. You can’t come in.” _The Grave-digger_: “Ah, my poor fellow, take pity on us. We are not pilgrims, as you have guessed, but we are unlucky poachers pursued by the keepers. Even the police are after us, and if you don’t hide us in your hay-loft, we shall be taken and led off to prison.” _The Hemp-dresser_: “And who will prove you are what you say you are, this time? For you have told us one lie already that you can’t maintain.” _The Grave-digger_: “If you will let us in, we shall show you a pretty piece of game we have killed.” _The Hemp-dresser_: “Show it right away, for we have our suspicions.” _The Grave-digger_: “All right, open the door or a window to let us pass the creature in.” _The Hemp-dresser_: “Oh, no, not quite so foolish. I am looking at you through a little chink, and I can see neither hunters nor game amongst you.” Here an ox-driver, a thick-set fellow of herculean strength, detached himself from a group where he had stood unperceived, and raised toward the window a plucked goose, spitted on a strong iron bar decorated with tufts of straw and ribbons. “Ho, ho!” cried the hemp-dresser, after cautiously extending an arm to feel the roast. “That isn’t a quail nor a partridge; it isn’t a hare nor a rabbit; it’s something like a goose or a turkey. Upon my word, you’re clever hunters, and that game didn’t make you run very far. Move on, you rogues; we know all your lies, and you had best go home and cook your supper. You are not going to eat ours.”