Under this description the inn folk looked aside at them with great curiosity and fear. At supper time none could be found willing to carry to them from the kitchen their bit of coarse bread and pitcher of water. The host was busied elsewhere; the hostess put down her foot that she would not; the men and maids laughed vacantly and stared, but would not budge in that direction. The old man, the parson, who chanced to be by, uttered a word of gentle chiding, then, as all still hung back, himself picked up the bread and water and carried them to the two. They thanked him. He stood looking at them with a gentle, pained face. Called to supper at the long table where the sheriff and his men were noisily taking places, he went away. But presently, his own frugal meal quickly made, he came back. Theirs, too, was made. They were seated on the stone flooring, shoulder against the wall, hand touching hand. They had no look of wicked folk. The old man found a stool, brought it and sat down beside them. “You look worn and tired. The roads have been bad to-day.” He spoke to Joan. “Bad here and there,” she said. “We are a little tired.” The old man sat looking from one to the other. Then he spoke with simplicity. “Is it true that you are apostates from religion?” “What,” said Aderhold, “is religion?—Is it love of good? Then, with our hand in death’s, I dare aver that we are not apostates!” He smiled at the old man. “Since we entered this room you have shown us a piece of religion.” “I would show you truly,” said the old man earnestly. “I would show you Jesus.” Aderhold answered gently. “You do so, sir. Believe that all of us know Jesus when we meet him.” The old man looked from one to the other. “You do not seem to me wicked people. I know not how it is, but you seem—” The sheriff and his men rose noisily from table. There immediately ensued a bustle in the place—boards and trestles being taken away—bundles of straw brought in—men going forth to look after the horses—men coming in with the breath of the wet night. One came and called the old parson, drew him away toward the small inner room where he was to rest. Going, he said but one word more to the two. “Good-night. I wish you good sleep.” The host who had called him held up his hands. “Reverend sir, I marvel how you can stand to talk with such miscreants—” Joan and Aderhold lay upon the stone floor and slept.... Night passed, the rain ceased, the clouds broke, dawn came with magnificence. The old parson, approaching, too, in the course of nature, his death hour, slept on like a child in the inner room. But Joan and Aderhold went forward with the guard. The inn sank from sight, the road stretched before them.