Hofer came in, looking gloomy, and began unlacing his boots, saying his feet had swollen. Theresa drew off his boots, and tenderly chafed his ankles. There was a subdued, glittering light in the priest's stealthy eye.
"Thou hast lost thy relish, may be, Anderl, for country bread and cheese," said Anna, smiling.
"When I do, I hope the first mouthful of it will choke me," returned the Sandwirth, vehemently cutting up the loaf in huge slices.
"Cincinnatus, returned to his plough," observed Father Donay ironically.
"I don't know aught of Saint Senatus," remarked Anna, after a moment's thought; "is he in our calendar, father?"
"No, my good woman,—no, daughter, no—A good Roman—"
"That's to say a good Catholic, I suppose," said Anna: but the priest did not answer her—his mouth was full of soup.
Hofer could not get on with his bread and cheese. He sank sorrowfully back in his chair, and covered his eyes with his hand.
"Take courage, son," said Father Donay; "consider what a noble sacrifice thou art about to make—"
"What sacrifice?" cried Anna hastily.