“Well,” said the chandler, “it was precisely thirteen minutes past one on the twenty-fourth of January when I drew my last breath.  I had just received your telegram from Paris absolving me from my debt.  Back there in the shop, among other things, is my predecessor’s fur coat, which—­I am by no means complaining—­infected me.  I wrote you that if I could, I would make myself noticeable from the Beyond.  Well, here I am.  But even here everything isn’t perfectly clear and plain, though I am feeling better, and we all rest in a pleasant sense of basic security.  I’m glad you and Peter Schmidt have met.  He counts for a lot here in this country.  You will meet each other above again, in New York, at the celebration of the four hundredth anniversary of 1492.  Good Lord!  Of what significance after all, is that little discovery of America?” Rasmussen in his strange disguise removed the miniature vessel from the show window.  It, too, was called the Santa Maria.  “Now, please be careful,” he said.  Frederick noticed that the old confectioner took one vessel after another of the same sort, but diminishing in size, from the first one.  “Patience,” he said, while still pulling more and more vessels from the entrails of the Santa Maria.  The procedure caused Frederick no slight astonishment.  “Patience.  The smaller are always the better ones.  If I had time, we should reach the smallest, the final, the most glorious work of Providence.  Each one of these ships carries us not only beyond the boundaries of our planet, but even beyond the limited barriers of our senses.  Each of them is adapted to carry us across the border.  If you are interested,” he continued, “I have other wares in my shop.  Here are the captain’s hedge-scissors, here is a plummet with which one can sound the lowest depths of the firmament and the Milky Way.  Here are the tropics of Cancer and Capricorn.  But you have no time, and I won’t detain you.”

The chandler closed the glass door on them; but they saw him with his nose flattened against the pane, mysteriously, as if he still had something to sell, holding his finger to his mouth, shaped like a carp’s.  His lips seemed to be framing certain words.  Frederick understood legno santo, Toilers of the Light, and even what his uncle had said about “up with you in the dismal air.”  But Peter Schmidt thrust his fist through the glass door, pulled Rasmussen’s embroidered cap off his head, took from it a little key, and beckoned Frederick to come away with him.  They left the houses behind and stepped out into the open rolling country.

“The thing is,” said Peter, “it will mean a lot of trouble.”

And they ran and climbed for hours.  Evening fell.  They lit a fire, and slept in a tree rocking in the wind.  Morning came.  They took to wandering again, until the sun lay low on the horizon.  Finally, Peter opened a small gate in a low wall.  On the other side of the wall was a garden.  A gardener was tying vines.