The very thought seemed an agony, for scarcely had he uttered it when his heart felt as if it would break, and he burst into a torrent of tears.
“Potztausend!” screamed Jacob, alarmed at the unusual cries—“Potztausend!” And as Fritz sobbed louder, so were the Starling’s cries of “Potztausend!” more shrill and piercing.
There were few people passing at the moment, but such as were, stopped; some to gaze with interest on the poor little boy—more, far more, to wonder at the bird; when suddenly a venerable old man, with a wide-leaved bat, and a silken robe reaching down to his feet, crossed over towards the fountain. It was the Curate of Lenz, a pious and good man, universally respected in Inspruck.
“What art thou weeping for, my child?” said he, mildly.
Fritz raised his eyes, and the benevolent look of the old man streamed through his heart like a flood of hope* It was not, however, till the question had been repeated, that Fritz could summon presence of mind to tell his sorrow and disappointment.
“Thou shouldst not have been here alone, my child,” said the curate; “thou shouldst have been in the great market with the others. And now the time is well-nigh over: most of the Bauers have quitted the town.”
“Potztausend!” cried the bird, passionately.
“It will be better for thee to return home again to thy parents,” said the old man, as he drew his little leathern purse from between the folds of his robe—“to thy father and mother.”
“I have neither!” sobbed Fritz.
“Potztausend!” screamed the Starling—“Potztausend!”