irst exchanged the
counting-house for the foreign city.

One day our Anton passed the inn where his principal had been wounded.
He stood still a moment, and looked with some curiosity at the old house
and at the court-yard, where white-coated soldiers were now occupied in
blacking and polishing their belts. At that moment he perceived a form
in a black caftan glide away like a shadow out of the bar across the
entrance. It had the black curls, the small cap, the figure and bearing
of his old acquaintance, Schmeie Tinkeles. Alas! but it was his face no
longer. The former Tinkeles had been rather a smart fellow of his kind.
He had always worn his long locks shining and curled; he had had red
lips, and a slight tinge of color on his yellow cheeks. The present
Schmeie was but a shadow of him of yore: he looked pale as a ghost, his
nose had become pointed and prominent, and his head drooped down like
the cup of a fading flower.

Anton cried out in amazement, "Tinkeles, is it really you?" and went up
to him. Tinkeles collapsed as if struck by a thunderbolt, and stared
with wide-opened eyes at Anton, an image of horror and alarm.

"God of justice!" were the only words that escaped his white lips.

"What is the matter with you, Tinkeles? you look a most miserable
sinner. What are you doing in this place, and what in the world leads
you to this house, of all others?"

"I can not help being here," answered the trader, still half
unconscious. "I can not help our principal being so unfortunate. His
blood has flowed on account of the goods which Mausche Fischel sent off,
having been paid for them. I am innocent, Mr. Wohlfart, on my eternal
salvation. I did not know that the landlord was such a worthless being,
and that he would lift his hand against the gentleman who stood before
him there without hat, without cap on--without cap on," he whined out
still more loudly; "bareheaded. You may believe that it was with me as
though a sword had fallen upon my own body when I saw the landlord use
such violence to a man who stood before him like a nobleman as he is,
and has been all his life long."

"Hear me, Schmeie," said Anton, looking wondering at the Galician, who
still harped upon the same string, trying to regain his composure by
dint of speaking. "Hear me, my lad; you were in this town when our
wagons were plundered--you saw from some hiding-place or other our
quarrel with the landlord--you know this man's character, and yet you