“Away, gipsies, away! See, see! the sun is rising behind the woods! Take up your bag and pass along the great alley of trees to the village. It is long, that alley to the village; you must set off early to arrive there in the morning-time.” This child-voice faded in the immense valley—echoes answered it from afar—from very far off, in a tenderer tone. Some women joined the child, seated near the fire, their hands interlaced in front of their knees, and they sang in chorus; then the men joined in the song, which was thus continually swelled with—“Away, gipsies, away.” Insensibly Mathéus’ head drooped; at length he stretched himself on the moss and sank into a profound sleep. CHAPTER XVII. The next day Mathéus awoke at an early hour; a heavy dew was falling, and slowly penetrating his brown greatcoat; the air was calm, and the valley misty. The gipsies, already stirring, were preparing to start on their way before daylight; they were loading themselves with their cauldron, their trombone, their French-horns, and their big drum; the women arranged their bags on their shoulders; the children settled down on the backs of their mothers. The vague murmur of the rain falling on the leaves of the trees alone broke the silence of the forest. Coucou Peter, moist as a duck, had not quitted his place by the fire; he was stirring some potatoes in the ashes, and appeared melancholy. “Well,” said Pfifer-Karl to him, “if you want to go with us make up your mind.” “No; I must go and preach at Saverne.” “Good luck to you, then, comrade—good luck to you!” The Nightingale also shook hands with him. The whole band then started on its way. It moved away slowly through the tall woods; pale rays illumined the horizon, rain streaked the air; the gipsies were not depressed by it, but went on laughing and talking amongst themselves. “Good journey to you,” cried Coucou Peter. Several turned and waved their hats; and soon all of them had disappeared in the wood. Coucou Peter then noticed the illustrious philosopher, who was sheltering himself under the turned-down brim of his wide hat. “Hey, Maître Frantz!” he cried; “the blessing of the Being of Beings will make us grow in strength, wisdom, and beauty.” “Yes, my good fellow,” replied Mathéus, “every day adds new trials and new merits to our glorious enterprise.” He said this in a tone so gentle and resigned, that Coucou Peter felt touched by it. “Doctor,” he said, “come here and taste my potatoes; they are as floury as chestnuts.” “With pleasure—with pleasure,” replied the good man, seating himself beside his disciple.