“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.

Dagobert, entering one of these stables, took from off a chest the portion of oats destined for his horse, and, pouring it into a winnowing basket, shook it as he approached Jovial.

To his great astonishment, his old travelling companion did not respond with a joyous neigh to the rustle of the oats rattling on the wicker work.  Alarmed, he called Jovial with a friendly voice; but the animal, instead of turning towards his master a look of intelligence, and impatiently striking the ground with his fore-feet, remained perfectly motionless.

More and more surprised, the soldier went up to him.  By the dubious light of a stable-lantern, he saw the poor animal in an attitude which implied terror—­his legs half bent, his head stretched forward, his ears down, his nostrils quivering; he had drawn tight his halter, as if he wished to break it, in order to get away from the partition that supported his rack and manger; abundant cold-sweat had speckled his hide with bluish stains, and his coat altogether looked dull and bristling, instead of standing out sleek and glossy from the dark background of the stable; lastly, from time to time, his body shook with convulsive starts.