The Saint of the Dragon's Dale

PATTER, patter, -the rain had beaten all day on the brown roofs of Eisenach. The wind swept in raw gusts across the rippling ocean of pines and beeches which crowded upon the little town from many a swelling hill. Under the grey battlements the Hörsel brawled angrily. At the Marien Gate, Andreas the warder dozed in his box, wrapping his great cloak tighter. He had searched few incoming wagons for toll that day. It was very cold, as often chances even in summer in tree-carpeted Thuringia. Andreas was sinking into another day-dream, when Joram, his shaggy dog, having opened one eye, opened the other, then started his master with a bark. " Hoch! hold!" cried Andreas, rubbing his eyes. "Who passes?" " Johann of the 'Crown and Bells.'" And the warder saw the tow-thatched stripling of the innkeeper tugging a great basket, whilst his buff coat dripped with rain. " And whither away?" quoth Andreas, settling back, as Joram ceased growling. " The 'Saint' in the Dragon's Dale needs his basket, rain or no rain-curse him!" And Johann's broad mouth drew into no merry smile...