"Fritzchen," he said plaintively, "what tricks are you up to now?"
"Isn't my wine to your taste, Herr Pastor?"
"I can't say it is. No. By Jove, Fritzchen!"
"I don't understand you, dear pastor. You see that I drink it. Indeed, since I began to repent my past sins I have drunk nothing else. It is what we call the wine of repentance and crucifixion! Pies-Porter.... Year '83.... An unusually cold and damp year, as you will remember."
"Ah!" exclaimed the pastor, suddenly enlightened.
"Yes, yes, old friend. Do you grasp it now? Since we condemned our Fritz to hell-fire there has been howling and gnashing of teeth at Halewitz. We don't wallow in luxury here, as David did with his Bathshebas. Sour Moselle is our only drink. Your health, old boy."
"Look here, Fritzchen," said the pastor, relapsing, after his shock, into the affectionate "thou," "if the condition of your conscience compels you to drink it, that is your own affair. I don't wish to hinder any one in carrying out their principles; but you must allow me, if you please, to be only an onlooker."
Leo laughed triumphantly in his face, for this was what he expected.
"If I am not mistaken, my dear friend, you once expressed yourself in the following beautiful and touching words: 'Bareheaded will I go, and walk with my naked soles on red-hot bricks.' Yes, you said you would do that for your David, your Fritzchen. But now, when it comes to the point, it seems that you can't even share in his penitence to the extent of drinking a glass of Pies-Porter, year '83, with him."
The old man stroked his cheeks. "You take me for a fool, Fritz," he said; "but ... you are right." And with a desperate effort he emptied the glass in one draught.