Yet we would fain relate the end of the Vetturino.
Crossing from Basle to Strasbourg, in the depth of winter, and descending an undulated valley, Pietro slept as usual.
Implicitly relying on the sure footedness of his horses, a fond dream of German beer, German tobacco, and German sauerkraut, soothed his slumbers.
A fragment of rock had been loosened from its ancient bed, and lay across the road.
Against this the leader tripped and fell.
The shock threw Pietro and his dog from their exalted station.
The pipe, which--whether he were sleeping or waking--had long decked the cheek of the honest driver, now fell from it, and was dashed into a thousand pieces.
It was an evil omen.
When the carriage was stopped, Pietro Molini was found quite lifeless. He had received a kick from the ungrateful heel of his friend Bruno, and the wheel of the carriage, it had been his delight to clean, had passed over the body of the hapless vetturino.
Ah! as that news spread! many an ostler of many a nation, shook his head mournfully, and with saddened voice, wondered that the same thing had not occurred years before.