Now Dagobert was under the porch of the inn, occupied in washing, to the great amazement of sundry beer-drinkers, who observed him with curious eyes from the large common room in which they were assembled.

In truth, it was a curious spectacle.  Dagobert had laid aside his gray top-coat, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt; with a vigorous hand, and good supply of soap, he was rubbing away at a wet handkerchief, spread out on the board, the end of which rested in a tub full of water.  Upon his right arm, tattooed with warlike emblems in red and blue colors, two scars, deep enough to admit the finger, were distinctly visible.  No wonder then, that, while smoking their pipes, and emptying their pots of beer, the Germans should display some surprise at the singular occupation of this tall, moustached, bald-headed old man, with the forbidding countenance—­for the features of Dagobert assumed a harsh and grim expression, when he was no longer in presence of the two girls.

The sustained attention, of which he saw himself the object, began to put him out of patience, for his employment appeared to him quite natural.  At this moment, the Prophet entered the porch, and, perceiving the soldier, eyed him attentively for several seconds; then approaching, he said to him in French, in a rather sly tone:  “It would seem, comrade, that you have not much confidence in the washerwomen of Mockern?”

Dagobert, without discontinuing his work, half turned his head with a frown, looked askant at the Prophet, and made him no answer.

Astonished at this silence, Morok resumed:  “If I do not deceive myself, you are French, my fine fellow.  The words on your arm prove it, and your military air stamps you as an old soldier of the Empire.  Therefore I find, that, for a hero, you have taken rather late to wear petticoats.”

Dagobert remained mute, but he gnawed his moustache, and plied the soap, with which he was rubbing the linen, in a most hurried, not to say angry style; for the face and words of the beast-tamer displeased him more than he cared to show.  Far from being discouraged, the Prophet continued:  “I am sure, my fine fellow, that you are neither deaf nor dumb; why, then, will you not answer me?”

Losing all patience, Dagobert turned abruptly round, looked Morok full in the face, and said to him in a rough voice:  “I don’t know you:  I don’t wish to know you!  Chain up your curb!” And he betook himself again to his washing.

“But we may make acquaintance.  We can drink a glass of Rhine-wine together, and talk of our campaigns.  I also have seen some service, I assure you; and that, perhaps, will induce you to be more civil.”

The veins on the bald forehead of Dagobert swelled perceptibly; he saw in the look and accent of the man, who thus obstinately addressed him, something designedly provoking; still he contained himself.

“I ask you, why should you not drink a glass of wine with me—­we could talk about France.  I lived there a long time; it is a fine country; and when I meet Frenchmen abroad, I feel sociable—­particularly when they know how to use the soap as well as you do.  If I had a housewife I’d send her to your school.”