"That won't suit me at all!" cried Franz. "Why, if I make up my mind to do an ill turn, I may as well do it as not; the sin—that is, the—whatever it is, will be the same—"
"The intention, but not the reward," said Father Donay. "Heaven notes our intentions; man only notes works."
"I wish I were fairly out of this work," exclaimed Franz. "If Theresa, now, were to come across me at this moment, she might overcome me with a straw!"
"Truly, I believe you!" said Father Donay, with ineffable scorn; "and men of straw, or men knocked down by straws, are not the men we pay."
"Ah!" cried Franz, grinding his teeth, "if you were not a priest, I should think some evil spirit was within you."
"And I, without any if," coolly replied Donay, "think an evil spirit is within you—the spirit of irresolution. Come! no more of this child's play. Are you going to throw away a cup of good milk because there's a cow-hair in it?"
"Not I," cried Franz recklessly. "Nothing venture, nothing have. Give me a fortnight, and I'll hunt him up. When I was keeping the herds up the mountains this summer, I made myself pretty well acquainted with all the nooks and corners of 'em; and I guess the man we are after to be in a certain châlet in a certain spot that I chanced upon one day, when I was seeking for cream o' the moon."
"Cream o' the moon, indeed!" repeated Father Donay, ironically. "Well—if you find him, and enable us to find him, that will be better than moonshine."
"But, father! if I find him, and point out to you the place where he is, you may find him yourselves. I wash my hands of taking him."