"three hours after noon."

"How do you know that?" I asked him.

"There is no doubt about that," he replied.

I did not attempt to make him understand that it could easily happen that
the famished animals had eaten their master, after he had died suddenly
in his hut.

As for the cross on the wall, it had appeared one morning, and no one
knew what hand traced it in that strange color.

Since then no one doubted any longer that the Wandering Jew had died on
this spot.

I myself believed it for one hour.




THE LITTLE CASK

He was a tall man of forty or thereabout, this Jules Chicot, the
innkeeper of Spreville, with a red face and a round stomach, and said by
those who knew him to be a smart business man. He stopped his buggy in
front of Mother Magloire's farmhouse, and, hitching the horse to the
gatepost, went in at the gate.

Chicot owned some land adjoining that of the old woman, which he had been