“Very good,” said Coucou Peter; “but let us arrange things so as not to go to bed in the mud.” Every one then set to work: Hans Aden climbed the barn-ladder, and threw down some bundles of straw through the window; Mathéus unharnessed Schimel and Bruno; Dame Thérèse produced provisions from a haversack! Coucou Peter saw to everything: he gave forage to the beasts, spread litter for them, hung up the harness, tasted the wine, and never lost sight of the donkey’s pannier in which the child was sleeping. Very soon all was ready, and they comfortably seated themselves on trusses of straw for supper. Similar scenes were passing in the Rue du Tonnelet Rouge; every group of pilgrims had its fire, the glare of which was reflected on the surrounding houses. To the tumult insensibly succeeded a vast silence; all these worthy people, overcome with fatigue, chatted amongst each in low tones as in the bosom of their family. It was so with Coucou Peter, Hans Aden, Dame Thérèse, and Mathéus: it might have been imagined that they had known one another for long years, when they were seated about the fire, and the bottle passed from hand to hand; they felt quite at home. “After you, Dame Thérèse,” said Coucou Peter. “Jolly, this small wine of Alsace!—Where was it grown, Maître Hans Aden?” “At Eckersthal.” “A famous place! Hand me a slice of ham.” “Here it is, Monsieur Coucou Peter.” “Your health, Maître Frantz!” “Yours, my children! What a beautiful night!—how mild the air is! Great Demiourgos foresaw that his children would have no place of shelter for their heads! O Great Being!” cried the good man, “Being of Beings! accept the thanks that rise from a sincere heart! It is not for ourselves alone that He is to be thanked, my dear friends; but for this innumerable crowd of creatures come from so far with the honourable purpose of paying Him their homage!” “Maître Frantz, you are not seated comfortably; take this truss of straw.” “This will do very well, Coucou Peter; I am quite comfortable as I am.” Schimel’s pannier was set up against the wall, and Coucou Peter, every moment, lifted the covering to see whether the little one was sleeping soundly. Bruno and Schimel were quietly munching their allowance; and when the flickering rays of the fire fell upon the posts, the windows fringed with rugged tufts of straw, waggons, and a thousand other objects in the shade—when it lit the calm and meditative head of the illustrious Doctor, the tender face of Thérèse, or the jovial features of Coucou Peter, the whole scene resembled an old picture out of the Bible. Towards eleven o’clock Mathéus asked permission to be allowed to go to sleep; tall Hans Aden had already stretched himself by the wall, and slept profoundly; Dame Thérèse was not yet sleepy, nor was Coucou Peter, and they continued their conversation in a low tone.