Instead of answering, the horned beast looked sideways at the beggar, and muttered,
“It was hardly worth while for the Almighty to vouchsafe us speech together on a Christmas-eve, and thus to acknowledge the assistance rendered by the presence of our ancestors at the birth of the Saviour, if we are compelled to put up with this fellow as our auditor.”
“You are very proud, my friend,” answered the ass gaily. “It is I rather who have reason to complain, I, whose noble ancestor once carried the Saviour to Jerusalem, proved by the cross imprinted ever since upon the shoulders of our family. But I can be well satisfied with whatever Providence has seen fit to grant me. Besides which, you see well enough that the sorcerer is asleep.”
“All his witchcrafts have been powerless to enrich him,” said the ox; “and he has thrown his soul away for little enough. The devil has not even hinted to him of the lucky chance he might have hereabouts in the course of a few days.”
“What lucky chance?” asked the ass.
“How!” cried the ox; “don’t you know, then, that each hundred years the stones on Plouhinec Common go down to drink at the river Intel, and that whilst away the treasures they conceal are left exposed?”
“Ah, I remember now,” interrupted the ass, “but then the stones return so quickly to their places, that it is impossible to avoid being crushed to pieces by them if you have not as your safeguard a twig of cross-wort surrounded by the five-leaved clover.”
“And besides,” continued the ox, “the treasures you may carry off all fade to dust unless you offer in return a baptised soul. A Christian must suffer death before the devil will permit you to enjoy in peace the wealth of Plouhinec.”
The beggar was not asleep, but had listened breathless to this conversation.
“Ah, my good friends,” thought he to himself, “you have made me richer than the wealthiest in all Vannes or Lorient. Be easy; the sorcerer of Pluvigner shall not lose Paradise for nothing.”