Ulrich was now fifteen, and could manage a cross-bow and hit the mark like a skilful hunter, and as the lad did not lack a love for the chase, Marx afforded him the pleasure.

All he had heard about the equal rights of men he engrafted into the boy's soul, and when to-day, for the hundredth time, Ulrich expressed a doubt whether it was not stealing to kill game that belonged to the count, the charcoal-burner straightened his mouth, and said: "Forest, stream and meadow are free.

Surely you know that." The boy gazed thoughtfully at the ground for a time, and then asked: "The fields too ?" "The fields ?" repeated Marx, in surprise.

"The fields?
The fields are a different matter." He glanced as he spoke, at the field of oats he had sown in the autumn, and which now bore blades a finger long.

"The fields are man's work and belong to him who tills them, but the forest, stream and meadow were made by God.