“These people,” he said, “owe me for lodging in the outhouse, for four dinners at thirty sous, and two feeds of oats; that makes seventeen francs. If they go off, where are they? I know nothing of them. Coucou Peter never has a sou. I demand that the horse shall be left in pledge.” Mathéus replied— “In all times prophets have been furnished with victuals and drink in the houses of their hosts, who considered themselves fortunate in being able to entertain them; and when their doors have been closed against them, they have shaken the dust from their feet and betaken themselves elsewhere. And I say that such obdurate-hearted men are greatly to be pitied: it would have been better for them never to have come into the world, since they do nothing but pain us by the sight of their iniquities.” In spite of this eloquent address, neither the mayor nor Jacob Fischer appeared to be convinced; on the contrary, the publican repeated the items of his bill: so much for the horse, so much for the illustrious philosopher and his disciple, so much for their guests; in all, seventeen francs. The mayor, seeing that the clamour was increasing, said— “Jacob, take the horse and retain it as security. They’ll have to go on foot, that’s all.” The landlord instantly snatched the bridle from Mathéus’s hands, and the good man, who was quite unprepared for the shock, nearly fell to the ground; but he clung to Bruno’s neck, and enfolding it in his arms sobbed like a child. “Bruno!—my poor Bruno!” he cried. “They wish to separate you from me—you, the companion of my toils—you, my best, my only friend! Oh, do not be so cruel! Bruno! my poor Bruno! what will become of you, far from your master? They will ill-treat you—they will care nothing for your long services!” The tears of the white-headed old man moved all the beholders. “It _is_ cruel,” they said among themselves, “to take this poor old man’s horse from him. He’s not dishonest—see how he weeps; it’s only good-hearted people who love animals in that way!” Several women, who had come like the others, with their children in their arms, hurried away, for they could not bear to see it. Coucou Peter, behind Bruno, hung his head dejectedly; he accused himself of being the cause of all, and two big tears ran down his red cheeks. Dame Thérèse wept also; and as everybody was at a stand-still to prevent the landlord taking away the horse, this good little woman slipped behind Coucou Peter and put thirty francs into his hand unseen. “Accept this, Monsieur Coucou Peter, for love of me,” she whispered. Coucou Peter put the money into his waistcoat-pocket and sobbed more than ever; then, after a few moments, raising his head, he cried— “Maître Jacob, I should not have thought this of you!—I should have thought you would have trusted an honest man! But since it’s as it is, here is your money—and let go this horse at once, or I’ll split your head open!”