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“The village fool—nonsense,” said the stranger. “Here is one piece of silver. See if it can’t loosen your tongue.”

“Thy money belongs to Zanah, where no man is richer than another,” said Hans Peter. “I will give it to the Herr Doktor.”

“For a fool you speak well,” said the stranger, casting a glance of curiosity at the boy. “Why are you called the simple one?”

Hans Peter put his hands in his pockets and answered:

“It may be because I talk too much to strangers.”

The man laughed. He had a clear-cut, clean-shaven face, which was almost stern in repose, but when he smiled it was plain that the spirit of youth still dwelt in him.

“Well, Hans Peter, we shall continue our march to Zanah,” he said. “One, two, three. There! We are off at a better pace.”

He took the valise from Hans Peter, who began to trot along at his side. The lad was not taller than a twelve-year old boy, but there was something so strange about him that the man asked him his age.

“One-and-twenty,” replied Hans Peter. “If the Lord had not made me a fool, thou wouldst know that I have a man’s years.”