“Thine interference will not be tolerated in Zanah. Thou shalt not defeat the ends of justice.” “Nay, mind not Hans Peter; the village fool doth not fear those who are called wise in Zanah.” The simple one spoke calmly, and he moved past Everett to the beam upon which he had been sitting. It occurred to Everett that any violent measures might only cause another method of torture to be devised, and he went into the inn to think about some means by which he could deliver Hans Peter. The day wore away, and late in the afternoon the simple one was still in the stocks. An attempt to discuss the matter with the Herr Doktor had proved fruitless. Everett went to the school-master, and Gerson Brandt told him that protest was useless. “I warned them that I would not consent to such a show of vengefulness,” said Gerson Brandt, “but they laughed at me, and hinted that the simple one was my accomplice.” He was sitting at his desk, and his attitude betrayed the deepest despondency. Everett went back to the inn just as the afternoon bell rang. It was the signal for the girls’ knitting-school and the boys’ learning-school to dismiss pupils. At this hour the mill-hands had a brief respite for the drinking of coffee. Soon the village street was full, and all the men, women, and children turned their steps towards the square. Here they stood in groups, talking in low tones, and casting glances up at the simple one, whose face was not less stolid than usual. Hans Peter had become deathly pale, but as he sat with bent back and bowed head he appeared oblivious of the crowd that was gazing at him. “At last the village fool hath found his right place in the world,” remarked Mother Kaufmann, taking a seat on the lowest step of the stocks and beginning to knit. “I hope he will remember all the impertinent things he hath said to us, and know that he is receiving his just dues,” said Gretchen Schneider, who had come into the square with Mother Kaufmann. “It seemeth to me that Hans Peter is one possessed of a devil,” declared Karl Weisel, joining Gretchen Schneider, and taking care to stand so close to her that his coat-sleeve brushed her arm. On the other side of the stocks Frieda Bergen had stopped to look up at the prisoner with compassion written on her pretty face. She wiped her eyes on the corner of her apron, and Joseph Hoff, who saw her grief, passed by her once or twice, biding his time until he could speak to her without attracting the attention of the elders or colony mothers, among whom his attachment for the girl had become common gossip. “Hans Peter may be free to-morrow,” he said, reassuringly. “Do not feel bad for him.” “There is a tenderness in my heart for all God’s creatures, Joseph,” the girl answered. “Be sure thou givest me most of thy sympathy,” Joseph Hoff said, and they smiled into each other’s faces with a look of perfect understanding.