with your children. I have my reasons for the
latter."

"What say you!" I cried aloud, filled with hope and anguish. "You know
something about them?"

"I know nothing about them," he answered curtly, rising to go out. "You
refuse my friendly advance. You have supped well--now sleep well."

"But what do you know of my children? Speak, I beg you, speak!"

"Wine alone loosens my tongue, friend Bull, and I am not one of those
men who loves to drink by himself. You are too proud to empty a cup with
your master. Sleep well till to-morrow, the day of the auction."

He took another step toward the door. I feared that by refusing to yield
to the man's fancy I would anger him, and above all lose the chance of
obtaining news of my beloved children.

"Do you really wish it?" I said. "Then I shall drink, and especially
shall I drink to the hope of soon meeting my son and daughter."

"You pray well," answered the "horse-dealer" approaching his chattel,
but keeping the chain's length away; then he poured me a full cup of
wine, and another for himself. I later recollected that the man had held
the cup a long time to his lips, but without my being able to see
whether he drank or not. "Come," he added. "Come, let us drink to the
good gain I shall make on you!"

"Yes, let us drink to the hope of meeting my children."

I emptied my cup. The wine seemed excellent.

"I made you a promise," began the dealer, "I shall keep my promise. You
told me that the chariot which held your family on the day of the battle
of Vannes was harnessed to four black oxen?"

"Yes."

"Four black oxen, with a little white mark in the middle of their
foreheads?"

"Yes, all four were brothers, and alike," I answered, unable to repress
a sigh at the thought of that fine yoke, raised on our own meadows,
which my father and mother had always admired.

"Those oxen carried on their necks leathern collars trimmed with little
brass bells like this one?" continued the "horse-dealer," fumbling in
his pocket, out of which he drew a little brass bell that he held up
before me.

I recognized it. It had been made by my brother Mikael, the armorer,
and bore the mark with which he stamped all the articles of his
fashioning.

"This bell comes from our oxen," I answered. "Will you give it to me? It
has no value."

"What," asked the dealer, laughing, "do you want to hang bells at your
neck too, friend Bull? It is your right. Here, take it. I brought it
only to k