"There is the priest's house," he said. "There is a light in
the window now. Perhaps he has come back."
"We will stop and ask for the bag," said I, watching the face of the
man. It did not blench, and I began to wonder if, after all, he might
not be honest.
The priest, a delightful, white-haired old fellow, himself of the
peasant class, had returned, and from a locked cupboard in his bare
little dining-room study produced the much talked of bag, in its
_ruecksack_.
The Boy sprang at it eagerly. So secure had he believed it to be on
the grey donkey's back, that he had not been in the habit of taking
out the key. It was still in the lock, and, the bag standing on the
priest's dinner table, the Boy opened it with visible excitement. Then
he dived down into the contents, without bringing them into sight, and
a bright colour flamed in his cheeks. "Everything is safe," he said,
with a long sigh of relief. "I'm thankful."
He turned to the priest, speaking in French--and his French was very
good. "I have offered a large reward to the finder of this bag. But
the man will not have it. Can you tell me why, _mon pere_?"
"I cannot tell you, Monsieur. Doubtless he has a reason which seems to
him good," answered the priest, who evidently knew that reason, but
was pledged not to tell. "He and his family have not been in my parish
long, but I believe them to be worthy people.
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