“Do you mean the sorrel horse?” asked Adam, in a deep, musical voice, thrusting a blazing pine torch into the iron ring on the forge.

“Yes, Master Adam.  He won’t bear shoeing, yet he’s very valuable.  We have nothing to equal him.  None of us can control him, but you formerly zounds!....you haven’t grown younger in the last few years either, Adam!  Put on your cap; you’ve lost your hair.  Your forehead reaches down to your neck, but your vigor has remained.  Do you remember how you cleft the anvil at Rodebach?”

“Let that pass,” replied Adam—­not angrily, but firmly.  “I’ll shoe the horse early to-morrow; it’s too late to-day.”

“I thought so!” cried the other, clasping his hands excitedly.  “You know how we stand towards the citizens on account of the tolls on the bridges.  I’d rather lie on thorns than enter the miserable hole.  The stable down below is large enough!  Haven’t you a heap of straw for a poor brother in Christ?  I need nothing more; I’ve brought food with me.”

The smith lowered his eyes in embarrassment.  He was not hospitable.  No stranger had rested under his roof, and everything that disturbed his seclusion was repugnant to him.  Yet he could not refuse; so he answered coldly:  “I live alone here with my boy, but if you wish, room can be made.”

The monk accepted as eagerly, as if he had been cordially invited; and after the horses and groom were supplied with shelter, followed his host into the sitting-room next the shop, and placed his saddle-bags on the table.

“This is all right,” he said, laughing, as he produced a roast fowl and some white bread.  “But how about the wine?  I need something warm inside after my wet ride.  Haven’t you a drop in the cellar?”

“No, Father!” replied the smith.  But directly after a second thought occurred to him, and he added:  “Yes, I can serve you.”

So saying, he opened the cupboard, and when, a short time after, the monk emptied the first goblet, he uttered a long drawn “Ah!” following the course of the fiery potion with his hand, till it rested content near his stomach.  His lips quivered a little in the enjoyment of the flavor; then he looked benignantly with his unusually round eyes at Adam, saying cunningly: 

“If such grapes grow on your pine-trees, I wish the good Lord had given Father Noah a pine-tree instead of a vine.  By the saints!  The archbishop has no better wine in his cellar!  Give me one little sip more, and tell me from whom you received the noble gift?”

“Costa gave me the wine.”

“The sorcerer—–­the Jew?” asked the monk, pushing the goblet away.  “But, of course,” he continued, in a half-earnest, half-jesting tone, “when one considers—­the wine at the first holy communion, and at the marriage of Cana, and the juice of the grapes King David enjoyed, once lay in Jewish cellars!”

Benedict had doubtless expected a smile or approving word from his host, but the smith’s bearded face remained motionless, as if he were dead.