As to John Durer, he rose to higher and higher dignities.  The Emperor, after having made him minister, married him to a noble heiress.  About that self-same time, the old shepherd and his wife died.  Their village neighbors accompanied them in silence to the humble churchyard.  A little man, whose hair was now white as snow, followed the dead with his head uncovered.  When the priest had cast on their coffins that handful of dust which sounds so drearily, the old man murmured—­

“There are bad sons, who, when they become fortunate, forget the aged parents who cherished them when they were children.  May they be requited! for of such is not the kingdom of heaven.”—­Then he knelt down by the side of the grave and prayed.

This old man was Counsellor Werter.  Wearied of the world, he had retired into obscurity, after having divided the larger part of his splendid fortune among the poor.  He was gay, nimble—­in the enjoyment of robust health; and many a time would he thank heaven that no children had been born to him, when he thought of the hard-heartedness of John Durer.

Not long after this, on the spot where the shepherd’s cabin had stood was seen a magnificent chateau.  It had been built so quickly, that it seemed like an enchanted palace.  Toward the middle of summer, a fine young lord, a fair noble lady of the castle, and two lovely children, entered the village near to Haerlem in pride and triumph, escorted by the peasants, who had assembled in their honor.  That fine young lord was John Durer, first Minister to his Majesty the Emperor of Germany.

It had chanced that heavy losses had befallen Counsellor Werter, which brought him within an inch of ruin.  Had it not been for a sister left him who took care of him, the poor old gentleman would have been, indeed, in a miserable plight.  A single word spoken by John Durer would have restored his ancient benefactor to court, and replaced him in the Emperor’s favor.  But vanity is without a heart; and wounded pride never forgives him who has wounded it.

IV.

One day the fine young lord took a fancy to go and visit all the spots in which, once on a time, he had dreamed away so many anxious hours.  But he would go alone, not choosing that any should witness his meeting with those old friends, the haunts which might reveal to a companion the poverty of his early life.  He set forth without attendants, mounted on a magnificent courser.  He rode here, he rode there, not feeling even surprised to see everything so much as it was when he had quitted the country.  The day began to go down—­it was evening—­when at last he came to the Valley of Bushes.  There was a small bird singing there, just as it sang on that evening long ago.  The sight of the white-thorn trees awakened painful recollections in his mind,—­no doubt, perhaps, even a pang of remorse; and he spurred his courser in order to get clear of the place.  But the animal trembled, snorted, and refused to move a step.  He spurred his courser:  the animal began to neigh violently.