"Out of respect for the cap I will not refuse you entrance here. But make what you have to say as brief as possible. In this house no Schranden is a welcome guest."
He put his stick in a corner, and drawing his flowered dressing-gown close about his loins, paced up and down the room.
Boleslav cast about for words. He felt like a criminal in the presence of this man, whose speech was like molten brass. Of a truth it was no easy matter, this taking the guilt of another on to one's own guiltless shoulders.
"Herr Pastor," he began, stammering, "can't you forget for a moment that I bear the name of Schranden?"
The old man laughed bitterly. "That's asking a little too much," he murmured; "a little too much."
"Regard me simply in the light of a son who wishes to bury his father, and who is prevented from fulfilling that most sacred duty by the wickedness and malice of the canaille."
For answer the old parson contracted his shaggy brows without speaking.
"I appeal to you as a priest of the Christian Church. Will you suffer such a scandal in your parish?"
"Such a thing cannot happen in my parish," the old man declared. "Wherever it is my duty to lead souls to God, every one must be granted a decent burial."
"And yet they dare----"