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A man so potent in his handicraft as Schatten might have surrounded himself with all the symbols of wealth; and, had he been ambitious, have successfully contended for the highest honours of citizenship. But, it was plain, he valued gold as ashes; and for the trappings of state and place, the most regal shows, the pomp and blazonry of kings, were with him matter for a jest.

“Alack!” cried Michel Sous, a withered money-scrivener of Beauvais—“I hear ’twas a brave sight; and plague on my shanks! I have missed it. Which way went the procession?” The man of bonds and pieces remained gaping for the answer of the tapestry weaver, who stood, cross-legged, leaning on his staff, with a face immovable as granite. It was a day of triumph, a time of holiday, and Michel had for once quitted his bags and desk to sun himself in the glory of his fellow-townsmen. “Weaver, I say, which way went the procession, and where shall I find it?”

“It went, after some turnings, into the churchyard. Take up a handful of mould, and, in truth, you clutch a part of what you seek.”