and saying in a surly tone, we shall pay you some time or other, took their departure.  “That’s the way they serve me now,” said the landlord, with a sigh.  “Do you know those fellows,” I demanded, “since you let them go away in your debt?” “I know nothing about them,” said the landlord, “save that they are a couple of scamps.”  “Then why did you let them go away without paying you?” said I.  “I had not the heart to stop them,” said the landlord; “and, to tell you the truth, everybody serves me so now, and I suppose they are right, for a child could flog me.”  “Nonsense,” said I, “behave more like a man, and with respect to those two fellows run after them, I will go with you, and if they refuse to pay the reckoning I will help you to shake some money out of their clothes.”  “Thank you,” said the landlord; “but as they are gone, let them go on.  What they have drank is not of much consequence.”  “What is the matter with you?” said I, staring at the landlord, who appeared strangely altered; his features were wild and haggard, his formerly bluff cheeks were considerably sunken in, and his figure had lost much of its plumpness.  “Have you changed your religion already, and has the fellow in black commanded you to fast?” “I have not changed my religion yet,” said the landlord, with a kind of shudder; “I am to change it publicly this day fortnight, and the idea of doing so—­I do not mind telling you—­preys much upon my mind; moreover, the noise of the thing has got abroad, and everybody is laughing at me, and what’s more, coming and drinking my beer, and going away without paying for it, whilst I feel myself like one bewitched, wishing but not daring to take my own part.  Confound the fellow in black, I wish I had never seen him! yet what can I do without him?  The brewer swears that unless I pay him fifty pounds within a fortnight he’ll send a distress warrant into the house, and take all I have.  My poor niece is crying in the room above; and I am thinking of going into the stable and hanging myself; and perhaps it’s the best thing I can do, for it’s better to hang myself before selling my soul than afterwards, as I’m sure I should, like Judas Iscariot, whom my poor niece, who is somewhat religiously inclined, has been talking to me about.”  “I wish I could assist you,” said I, “with money, but that is quite out of my power.  However, I can give you a piece of advice.  Don’t change your religion by any means; you can’t hope to prosper if you do; and if the brewer chooses to deal hardly with you, let him.  Everybody would respect you ten times more provided you allowed yourself to be turned into the roads rather than change your religion, than if you got fifty pounds for renouncing it.”  “I am half inclined to take your advice,” said the landlord, “only, to tell you the truth, I feel quite low, without any heart in me.”  “Come into the bar,” said I, “and let us have something together—­you need not be afraid of my not paying for what I order.”