Up to this moment the brute-tamer, enraged at the issue of this scene, for he had hoped that the soldier would accept his challenge, looked on with savage contempt at those who had thus sided against him.  But now his features gradually relaxed; and, believing it useful to his projects to hide his disappointment, he walked up to the soldier, and said to him, with a tolerably good grace:  “Well, I give way to these gentlemen.  I own I was wrong.  Your frigid air had wounded me, and I was not master of myself.  I repeat, that I was wrong,” he added, with suppressed vexation; “the Lord commands humility—­and—­I beg your pardon.”

This proof of moderation and regret was highly appreciated and loudly applauded by the spectators.  “He asks your pardon; you cannot expect more, my brave fellow?” said one of them, addressing Dagobert.  “Come, let us all drink together; we make you this offer frankly—­accept it in the same spirit.”

“Yes, yes; accept it, we beg you, in the name of your pretty little girls,” said the stout man, hoping to decide Dagobert by this argument.

“Many thanks, gentlemen,” replied he, touched by the hearty advances of the Germans; “you are very worthy people.  But, when one is treated, he must offer drink in return.”

“Well, we will accept it—­that’s understood.  Each his turn, and all fair.  We will pay for the first bowl, you for the second.”

“Poverty is no crime,” answered Dagobert; “and I must tell you honestly that I cannot afford to pay for drink.  We have still a long journey to go, and I must not incur any useless expenses.”

The soldier spoke these words with such firm, but simple dignity, that the Germans did not venture to renew their offer, feeling that a man of Dagobert’s character could not accept it without humiliation.

“Well, so much the worse,” said the stout man.  “I should have liked to clink glasses with you.  Good-night, my brave trooper!—­Good-night—­for it grows late, and mine host of the Falcon will soon turn us out of doors.”

“Good-night, gentlemen,” replied Dagobert, as he directed his steps towards the stable, to give his horse a second allowance of provender.

Morok approached him, and said in a voice even more humble than before:  “I have acknowledged my error, and asked your pardon.  You have not answered me; do you still bear malice?”

“If ever I meet you,” said the veteran, in a suppressed and hollow tone, “when my children have no longer need of me, I will just say two words to you, and they will not be long ones.”

Then he turned his back abruptly on the Prophet, who walked slowly out of the yard.

The inn of the White Falcon formed a parallelogram.  At one end rose the principal dwelling; at the other was a range of buildings, which contained sundry chambers, let at a low price to the poorer sort of travellers; a vaulted passage opened a way through this latter into the country; finally, on either side of the court-yard were sheds and stables, with lofts and garrets erected over them.