They reached the inn, where Diedrich Werther received them with his customary imperturbability. “Hast thou a place in the cellar where thou canst lock up this culprit?” Karl Weisel inquired. At the same time the Herr Doktor pushed the simple one into the middle of the room. “There is a heavy bolt on the potato-bin,” said Werther, taking his pipe out of his mouth and leaning upon the dog-eared register. “Conduct Hans Peter to it, and be his jailer until to-morrow morning. Mind that he hath no supper.” “What is Hans Peter’s offence?” Mother Werther asked, opening the door from the kitchen and putting her black-capped head into the room. “Tut, tut, my boy! I hope thou hast not been exhibiting thy folly in some hazardous manner.” Hans Peter put his hands into his deep pockets, hung his head, and made no reply. “The simple one is to be locked in your potato-bin until he tells the truth about the Bible,” announced the Herr Doktor. “Nay, be not too severe with him. Hans Peter will tell—wilt not thou, boy?” said Mother Werther, coaxingly. But the simple one only shook his round head. “You may have to stay down there in the darkness with the rats for a week,” said Karl Weisel. “Yea, thou shalt not baffle the elders of Zanah,” declared the Herr Doktor. “It will be the cellar or the stocks until thou dost wag thy stubborn tongue to good purpose.” “Now thou art speaking wisely, Brother Schneider,” said Karl Weisel. “Why dost thou not order Diedrich Werther to conduct the fool to his prison?” “Take him away,” commanded the Herr Doktor. “Thou knowest I permit no rats in the _gasthaus_ cellar,” said Mother Werther, shaking her head indignantly at Karl Weisel; and edging up to Hans Peter, she bent low to whisper: “Thou shalt have the best supper I can carry to thee.” “Verily, even Mother Werther appears to be encouraging sedition in Zanah,” remarked Karl Weisel, pointing to the innkeeper’s wife with a backward movement of his thumb. “If there is sedition in Zanah, it is thou that sowest discontent.” Mother Werther put her arms on her broad hips, and looked at him for a moment with such contempt in her kindly face that the head of the thirteen elders slunk aside to a chair behind the high counter. “I will take Hans Peter to the potato-bin, and he shall have a clean straw tick to lie on,” she said. “Come, Hans Peter.” Mother Werther put a hand on the simple one’s shoulder and walked out into the kitchen with him. Presently they were heard descending the stairs, and then their voices sounded from the distant place of imprisonment.