"I am hurrying to rejoin someone whom I have lost and whose track I am following," replied the stranger. "What is your profession," cried the Jew. "I am a poet." The prophet stamped with his foot and as the young man disappeared he cursed him horribly because of the pity he felt, then lowering his head he went to look at the signposts along the road. Wheezing, he took the road straight ahead of him. "Happily the wind is fallen... at least one can walk... I had thought at first that he was coming to kill me. But, no, he will probably die even before me, this poet who is not even a Jew. Well, let us go quick and merrily to prepare us a glorious death." The old rabbi walked faster; with his long cloak he gave the effect of a returned spirit, and some children who were returning from Putzchen after the Christmas Tree party passed him crying with terror, and for a long time they threw stones in the direction in which he had disappeared. * * * Croniamantal covered in this way part of Germany and the Austrian Empire; the force that propelled him drew him across Thuringia, Saxony, Bohemia, Moravia, up to Brünn, where he decided to stop. On the very night of his arrival, he scoured the town. Along the streets surrounding the old palace enormous Swiss guards in breeches and cocked hats, were standing before the doors. They leaned on long canes with crystal heads. Their gold buttons gleamed like the eyes of cats. Croniamantal lost his way; he wandered about for some time in poor streets where shadows passed vividly across drawn blinds. Officers in long blue coats passed by. Croniamantal turned to glance at them, then he walked outside of the town with night coming on, to look at the sombre mass of the Spielberg. While he was looking at the old state prison, he heard the sound of feet dose by and then saw three monks pass gesticulating and talking loudly. Croniamantal ran after them and asked them directions. "You are French," they said; "come with us." Croniamantal examined them and noticed that they wore above their frocks little beige cloaks that were very elegant. Each one carried a light cane and wore a melon-shaped hat. On the way one of the monks said to Croniamantal: "You have wandered far from your hotel, we will show you the way if you wish. But if you care to, you may certainly come to the convent with us: you will be well received because you are a foreigner and you can pass the night there." Croniamantal accepted joyfully, saying: "I shall be very glad to come, for aren't you brothers to me, who am a poet." They began to laugh. The oldest, who wore a gold-framed lorgnon and whose belly puffed out of his fashionable waistcoat, raised his arms and cried: "A poet! Is it possible!" And the two others, who were thinner, choked with laughter, bending down and holding their bellies as if they had the colic. "Let us be serious," said the monk with the lorgnon, "we are going to pass through a street inhabited by the Jews."