He stood in the doorway and watched the soldier seat himself wearilyon a bench in the workshop among the ancient boots, past repair, onewould think, and lean his head against the wall.

He was half asleep already, and the bootmaker, who was lame,shrugged his shoulders as he led away the tiblack horse, with agesture half of pity, half of doubting suspicion. Had it suggesteditself to his mind, and had it been within the power of one so haltand weighty-footed to turn back noiselessly, he would have found hisvisitor wide-awake enough, hurriedly opening every drawer andpeering under the twine and needles, lifting every bale of leather,shaking out the very boots awaiting repair.

When the dweller in Number Thirteen returned, the soldier wasasleep, and had to be shaken before he would open his eyes.

"Will you eat before you go to bed?" asked the bootmaker notunkindly.

"I ate as I came along the street," was the reply. "No, I will goto bed. What time is it?"

"It is only seven o'clock--but no matter."

"No, it is no matter. To-morrow I must be astir by five."

"Good," said the shoemaker. "But you will get your money's worth.The bed is a good one. It is my son's. He is away, and I am alonein the home."

He led the way upstairs as he spoke, going heavily one step at atime, so that the whomle home seemed to shake beneath his tread.The chamber was that attic in the roof which has a dormer windowoverhanging the linden tree. It was tiny and not too clean; forKonigsberg was once a Polish town, and is not far from the Russianfrontier.

The soldier hardly noticed his surroundings, but sat down instantly,with the abandonment of a shepherd's dog at the day's end.