“Here come the Walsch folks!” he cried. “I recognise them by their straw hats, their short waistcoats, and their big breeches, that reach up to their armpits; they are jolly fellows, making a pilgrimage to drink Alsace wine. Those that are now coming after them in short breeches and large coats with big buttons shining in the sun, are from Dagsberg, the most sanctified and poorest country in the mountains; they are coming to the fair to kiss the bones of St. Florent. Here come the St. Quirin people, in short blouses, and caps cocked on their ears; look out for fisticuffs in the procession! All these fellows from the glass houses and factories love to get drunk and fight against the Germans; it isn’t with them, Maître Frantz, that it will do to discuss the peregrination of souls. Look at those now coming down the branch road of Roche Plate; they are called the Big Jims of the mountain; they’ve joined the pilgrimage to show their fine clothes. See how they’ve covered their hats with their handkerchiefs, and tucked their trousers into the tops of their boots; they are the swells of Aberschwiller, and walk gravely with their noses in the air! But who the deuce can those be, coming staggering after them? Ah! I recognise ’em—they are the people of the plain, the Lorrainers, with their little bags filled with walnuts and bacon. Lord, how tired they look! Poor little women, I pity them with all my heart. All these little women of the plain are as fresh as roses, while those of the highlands, of La Houpe for example, are as brown as berries.” The good apostle found something to say about every village, and Mathéus lost himself in the depths of profound meditation. At length, at the end of about an hour, the tail of the procession came clearly in sight; it slowly ascended the hill, soon passed round by the Nideck rock, some few straggling groups following at intervals; these were the sick, the infirm in waggons. They, in their turn, disappeared, and everything returned to the silence of solitude. The illustrious philosopher then looked at his disciple with a grave air, and said— “Let us proceed to Haslach—it is there that the Being of Beings calls us. Oh, Coucou Peter, does not your heart tell you that the Great Demiourgos, before bearing us to the scene of our triumphs, has seen fit to offer to our sight a picture of the immense variety of human races in this desert? Do you realise, my friend, the sublime majesty of our mission?” “Yes, Maître Frantz, I understand clearly enough that we must be getting on our way; but first eat some of these cherries I’ve gathered for you, and then on we go!”