Conversing in this manner, the illustrious philosopher and his disciple tranquilly went their way along the valleys of the Zorn. Mathéus, who loved nothing so well as the interior of the woods, forgot the ingratitude of the human species; the scarce perceptible sound of an insect nibbling the bark of an old tree, the flight of a bird through the rustling foliage, the vague murmur of a stream in the ravine, the whirl of the gnats dancing above the still pools—these thousand details of solitude ceaselessly furnished new texts for his anthropo-zoological meditations. Coucou Peter whistled to amuse himself, and from time to time paid his respects to his flask of kirschwasser. Bruno often went into the Zorn up to the saddle-girths; at those times Maître Frantz and his disciple clung to one another, raising their legs well out of the way of the water, which they watched running below them with tumultuous gurglings. The heat, however, became overpowering; not a breath of air penetrated the woods. Coucou Peter, having dismounted, felt the perspiration streaming down his back; Mathéus, who had not closed an eye all night, yawned from time to time, murmuring, “Great—Great Demiourgos!” without exactly knowing what further he wished to say. In this way they reached a gorge where the torrent spread over a pebbly bed. Hardly had Bruno reached the edge of the water, before the confounded beast stretched out his neck to drink, and Maître Frantz, not expecting this movement, was nearly shot over his head. Coucou Peter quickly seized him by the tails of his coat; and then the rogue gave vent to such a formidable roar of laughter that all the neighbouring echoes rang with it. “Coucou Peter! Coucou Peter!” cried the scandalised Doctor; “are you not ashamed to laugh when I am in danger of being drowned? Is this, then, your affection for me?” “I’m laughing, Maître Frantz, because you’ve escaped. If I hadn’t got hold of you, you’d now be paddling in the water like a frog.” “This is an unpropitious day,” replied Mathéus; “if we continue our journey, I foresee numberless misfortunes!” “Many besides you have dropped off to sleep and tumbled from their horses,” said Coucou Peter. “Lie down on the moss, take a good nap, and the unpropitious will have passed away by the time you wake. I’ll go and have a bathe. Bruno won’t be sorry for a rest, I’m sure.” This advice was too much in accord with the good Doctor’s own ideas not to be agreeable to him. “I approve of this pleasant design,” he said. “Lend me the aid of your shoulder; I am stiff. Take off the horse’s bridle. Go and bathe, my good fellow—go and bathe; a bath will refresh your blood.”