"To build a monastery, and house the poor."

The old man's face scowled and grew dark, for he was a Lutheran
pastor from Bavaria.

"Who taught you such trash?" be said, crossly.

"It is not trash. It is faith."

And Findelkind's face began to burn, and his blue eyes to
darken and moisten. There was a little crowd beginning to gather,
and the crowd was beginning to laugh. There were many soldiers
and rifle-shooters in the throng, and they jeered and joked, and
made fun of the old man in the long cloak, who grew angry then
with the child. "You are a little idolater and a little impudent
sinner!" he said, wrathfully, and shook the boy by the shoulder,
and went away, and the throng that had gathered around had only
poor Findelkind left to tease.

He was a very poor little boy indeed to look at, with his
sheepskin tunic, and his bare feet and legs, and his wallet that
never was to get filled.

"Where do you come from, and what do you want?" they asked; and
he answered, with a sob in his voice:

"I want to do like Findelkind of Arlberg."

And then the crowd laughed, not knowing at all what he meant,