haughty upstart.

At this, the old man threw his cloak open, and showed himself to the
Minister, as he had shown himself twenty years before, on that very spot,
to the scholar John Durer. The Counsellor was little changed in
appearance, except in his hair, which had been black, and was now white
as the snow of winter.

John Durer's visage was mostly pale; but when he recognized that old man,
it became as red as blood. It was the third time that he had blushed
face to face with his former patron. Then the old man cried in a louder
voice,--

"Does the scholar of the village remember one Counsellor Werter?"

"The Minister remembers nothing of the scholar," was the cold and
arrogant answer.

"What, then, does he remember?" said the old man, pressing a little
nearer.

"NOTHING!" cried the fine young lord, and he buried his spurs in the
sides of his courser. They went off at a fierce gallop.


V.

But the fine young lord had only answered the truth. Whether it was from
that sudden struggle of pride, and his hard-hearted resolution not to
remember the Counsellor who had befriended him formerly or whether the