"Can you mean it, Monseigneur?" the Mayor exclaimed.
"I mean it so fully that I absolutely refuse gendarmes, and intend to start in an hour."
"Monseigneur, you will not do that!"
"There is in the mountain," the Bishop continued, "a humble little parish, which I have not visited for three years. They are good friends of mine, and quiet and honest shepherds. They are the owners of one goat out of every thirty they guard; they make very pretty woollen ropes of different colors, and they play mountain airs on small six-holed flutes. They want to hear about heaven every now and then, and what would they think of a bishop who was afraid? What would they say if I did not go?"
"But, Monseigneur, the brigands."
"Ah," said the Bishop, "you are right; I may meet them. They too must want to hear about heaven."
"But this band is a flock of wolves."
"Monsieur Mayor, it may be that this is precisely the flock of which Christ has made me the shepherd. Who knows the ways of Providence?"
"Monseigneur, they will plunder you."
"I have nothing."