Then the hermit girded his loins, took up his staff, and journeyed in the direction of the setting sun. Having reached the foot of the Mountain when the gloaming tinged its flanks in blood, he stretched out his arms up to the summit of the Mount and begged it to marry his daughter.
"Alas," answered the Mountain, mournfully, "you are much mistaken. I am by no means the mightiest of God's works. A Rat that has burrowed a big hole at my feet is mightier by far than I am, for he nibbles and bites me and burrows in my bowels, and I can do nothing against it. Ask the Rat to marry thy daughter, for he is mightier by far than I am."
The hermit, after much ado, found out the Rat's hole, and likewise the Rat, who—like himself—was a hermit.
"Oh, mightiest of God's mighty works! I have one daughter, passing fair, highly accomplished, and well versed in sacred lore; wilt thou—unless thou art already married—take this rare maiden as thy lawful wedded wife?"
"Hitherto, I have never contemplated marriage," retorted the Rat, "for 'sufficient to the day are the evils thereof'; still, where is your daughter?"
"She is at home, in the wilderness."
"Well, you can't expect me to marry a cat in a bag, can you?" he answered, squeaking snappishly.
"Oh, certainly not!" replied the anchorite, humbly; "still, that she is fair, you have my word on it; and I was a judge of beauty in past times"—thereupon he stopped, and humbly crossed himself—"that she is wise—well, she is my daughter."
"Pooh!" said the Rat; "every father thinks his child the fairest one on earth; you know the story of the owl, don't you?"
"I do," retorted the hermit, hastily.