"It is not so," said Father Peter, and looked at us very severely. "I
came by here a while ago, and there was no one here, but that is nothing;
some one has been here since. I don't mean to say that the person didn't
pass here before you came, and I don't mean to say you saw him, but some
one did pass, that I know. On your honor--you saw no one?"

"Not a human being."

"That is sufficient; I know you are telling me the truth."

He began to count the money on the path, we on our knees eagerly helping
to stack it in little piles.

"It's eleven hundred ducats odd!" he said. "Oh dear! if it were only
mine--and I need it so!" and his voice broke and his lips quivered.

"It is yours, sir!" we all cried out at once, "every heller!"

"No--it isn't mine. Only four ducats are mine; the rest...!" He fell to
dreaming, poor old soul, and caressing some of the coins in his hands,
and forgot where he was, sitting there on his heels with his old gray
head bare; it was pitiful to see. "No," he said, waking up, "it isn't
mine. I can't account for it. I think some enemy... it must be a
trap."

Nikolaus said: "Father Peter, with the exception of the astrologer you
haven't a real enemy in the village--nor Marget, either. And not even a
half-enemy that's rich enough to chance eleven hundred ducats to do you a
mean turn. I'll ask you if that's so or not?"