"It is a thing made to look like gold; that is all."
"It is a lie, then!"
The old man smiled. "Well, nobody thinks so. If you like to put it so, perhaps it is. What do you want gold for, you wee thing?"
"To build a monastery, and house the poor."
The old man's face scowled and grew dark, for he was a Lutheran pastor from Bavaria.
"Who taught you such trash?" he said, crossly.
"It is not trash. It is faith."
And Findelkind's face began to burn, and his blue eyes to darken and moisten. There was a little crowd beginning to gather, and the crowd was beginning to laugh. There were many soldiers and rifle-shooters in the throng, and they jeered and joked, and made fun of the old man in the long cloak, who grew angry then with the child. "You are a little idolater and a little impudent sinner!" he said, wrathfully, and shook the boy by the shoulder, and went away, and the throng that had gathered around had only poor Findelkind left to tease.
He was a very poor little boy indeed to look at, with his sheepskin tunic, and his bare feet and legs, and his wallet that never was to get filled.
"Where do you come from, and what do you want?" they asked; and he answered, with a sob in his voice: