“For preaching the doctrine.” “The doctrine! Ah, the scoundrels! I see how it is: they’re afraid of losing their places; because if we were the masters, it is we who would be the rabbis.” “That’s it! They threaten us with the galleys.” Coucou Peter stood with wide-open eyes and mouth. At the same time a voice, from the depths of the room, cried— “In Heaven’s name, save yourself, Peter!—fly!” “Don’t be alarmed, Gredel—don’t be alarmed,” said the fiddler. “Poor little woman, how she loves me! We’ll be off at once. The galleys! Ah, the rascals!—Where shall we go, Maître Frantz?” “To Strasbourg.” “Yes, let’s go to Strasbourg. Gredel, get up and make us some breakfast. Go back to your room, Maître Frantz; in five minutes I shall be ready.” The illustrious philosopher returned to his chamber, and Coucou Peter shortly rejoined him, buttoning on his braces. “My wife is already in the kitchen, Maître Frantz,” he said; “I’ll go and saddle Bruno, and in less than an hour we shall be off.” Mathéus, however, returned in the course of a few minutes, to tell him what had passed on the previous night. Coucou Peter learned with pleasure that they were being sought in the neighbourhood of Haslach. “Good!” he said—“good! We need not be in a hurry, but may get our breakfast quietly.” Together they went down into the kitchen, and found Gredel cooking steaks on the gridiron and preparing the coffee. The grey hues of morning were spreading through the kitchen, the fire crackled, thousands of glittering sparks flew up the black chimney, and Maître Frantz sat gravely contemplating the scene and thinking of Graufthal. At the end of a quarter of an hour, Coucou Peter returned and reported that Bruno had eaten his feed of oats with visible satisfaction. Then, turning to his wife, “Give me your best knife, Gredel,” he said; “I want it.” “What do you want with it?” she asked. “You’ll see—you’ll see presently.” As soon as he had got the knife, he raised himself upon the hearth, and seizing a smoked sausage, as thick as his arm, hanging in the chimney, cut it in two; he then did the same with a ham, and appeared highly satisfied with his labour. “If we are forced to take to the woods, Maître Frantz,” he said, “we’ll not be driven to eat mast like Saint Antoine.” “Ah! it’s not you, you rogue, who will ever die of hunger!” cried his wife; “you’d pawn your breeches first!” “How well you know me, Gredel!—how well you know me!” cried the gay fiddler, kissing her affectionately. He then went out to put his provisions in a haversack. “Is it really true, Doctor,” asked Gredel, as soon as he was out of hearing, “that you wish to make him Chief Rabbi of the peregrination of souls? The fact is, he has told me so many stories, that I can’t now believe anything he says.”