ve lost his
scabbard--he cannot travel without one to his scymetar, and will not
be able to get a scabbard to fit it in all Strasburg.--I never had one,
replied the stranger, looking back to the centinel, and putting his hand
up to his cap as he spoke--I carry it, continued he, thus--holding up
his naked scymetar, his mule moving on slowly all the time--on purpose
to defend my nose.

It is well worth it, gentle stranger, replied the centinel.

--'Tis not worth a single stiver, said the bandy-legg'd drummer--'tis a
nose of parchment.

As I am a true catholic--except that it is six times as big--'tis a
nose, said the centinel, like my own.

--I heard it crackle, said the drummer.

By dunder, said the centinel, I saw it bleed.

What a pity, cried the bandy-legg'd drummer, we did not both touch it!

At the very time that this dispute was maintaining by the centinel
and the drummer--was the same point debating betwixt a trumpeter and a
trumpeter's wife, who were just then coming up, and had stopped to see
the stranger pass by.

Benedicity!--What a nose! 'tis as long, said the trumpeter's wife, as a
trumpet.

And of the same metal said the trumpeter, as you hear by its sneezing.

'Tis as soft as a flute, said she.

--'Tis brass, said the trumpeter.

--'Tis a pudding's end, said his wife.

I tell thee again, said the trumpeter, 'tis a brazen nose,

I'll know the bottom of it, said the trumpeter's wife, for I will touch
it with my finger before I sleep.

The stranger's mule moved on at so slow a rate, that he heard every
word of the dispute, not only betwixt the centinel and the drummer, but
betwixt the trumpeter and trumpeter's wife.

No! said he, dropping his reins upon his mule's neck, and laying both
his hands upon his breast, the one over the other in a saint-like
position (his mule going on easily all the time) No! said he, looking
up--I am not such a debtor to the world--slandered and disappointed as
I have been--as to give it that conviction--no! said he, my nose shall
never be touched whilst Heaven gives me strength--To do what? said a
burgomaster's wife.

The stranger took no notice of the burgomaster's wife--he was making
a vow to Saint Nicolas; which done, having uncrossed his arms with the
same solemnity with which he crossed them, he took up the reins of his
bridle with his left-hand, and putting his right hand into his bosom,
with the scymetar hanging loosely to the wrist of it, he rode on,