"Thanks, mein Herr—yours."
Just at this moment two clocks struck at opposite ends of the room—one twelve, and the other seven. I ventured to suggest that mine host was tolerably well reminded of the flight of time; whereupon he explained that his work lay chiefly in the repairing and regulating line, and that at that present moment he had no less than one hundred and eighteen clocks of various sorts and sizes on the premises.
"Perhaps the Herr Engländer is a light sleeper," said his quick-witted wife, detecting my dismay. "If so, we can get him a bedroom elsewhere. Not, perhaps, in the town, for I know no place where he would be as comfortable as with ourselves; but just outside the Friedrich's Thor, not five minutes' walk from our door."
I accepted the offer gratefully.
"So long," I said, "as I ensure cleanliness and quiet, I do not care how homely my lodgings may be."
"Ah, you'll have both, mein Herr, if you go where my wife is thinking of," said the landlord. "It is at the house of our pastor—the Père Chessez."
"The Père Chessez!" I exclaimed. "What, the pastor of the little church out yonder?"
"The same, mein Herr."
"But—but surely the Père Chessez is dead! I saw a tablet to his memory in the chancel."
"Nay, that was our pastor's elder brother," replied the landlord, looking grave. "He has been gone these thirty years and more. His was a tragical ending."