When the smoky roofs of Saverne and the weathercock of the church had disappeared behind the mountain, Coucou Peter at length shook off the deep reverie in which he had been indulging, and after two or three times clearing his voice, he gravely chanted the old ballad of ‘The Count of Geroldsek:’ the yellow dwarf keeping watch on the highest tower, the deliverance of the fair Itha, held captive at Haut-Bârr. There was something melancholy in Coucou Peter’s voice, for he was thinking of his little Gredel. Bruno’s step was in cadence; and to the mind of Mathéus, listening to this old language, returned dim and vague memories. After the last verse Coucou Peter took breath, and cried— “What a jolly life these Counts of Geroldsek led!—going about the mountain, carrying off girls, fighting husbands—drinking, singing, feasting, from morning till night! What a glorious existence! The king himself wasn’t fit to be their cousin!” “Doubtless—doubtless, the Counts of Geroldsek were great and powerful nobles,” replied Mathéus. “Their authority extended from the county of Bârr to Sûngau, and from Lower Mundat to Bassigny, in Champagne; the richest jewels, the most beautiful arms, the most magnificent hangings, belonged to their sumptuous castles in Alsace and Lorraine; the most exquisite wines filled their cellars, numerous knights rode under their banners, crowds of gentlemen and valets attended upon them in their courts—some monks also, whom they held in great esteem. Unfortunately, instead of practising anthropo-zoological virtues, these noble personages destroyed travellers on the highway; and the Being of Beings, weary of their rapine, has made them descend in the rank of animals.” “Ah!” cried Coucou Peter, laughing, “it seems to me that I must once have been one of those good monks you have just been speaking about. I must try and find out, the first time I go by Geroldsek.” “How do you mean to do that?” “I shall go up to the castle, and if ever I have been one of those good monks, I shall find out the road to the cellar at once.” While deploring the sensual tendencies of his disciple, Mathéus inwardly laughed at his gay humour. “One cannot be perfect,” he said to himself. “This poor Coucou Peter thinks only of satisfying his physical appetites; but he is so good a fellow that the Great Demiourgos will not be offended with him; he will even laugh, I think, at the idea of the monk and his proof of the cellar of Geroldsek!” And the illustrious philosopher shook his head, as much as to say, “He’ll never change! He’ll never change!”