"As thou art a writer of books, it is thy fortune to be unfortunate. As thou art so unfortunate as to pluck apart every impression, thou dost rob thy life of all joy.—Let us go further!"
The watchman led her now to the market-place to a wealthy tallow-chandler. This man had passed his entire youth in a damp vault with his chandlery. His provision for the future had never won him a day's leisure. Still he was sitting on the steps of his house, evidently broken-down and in his dotage, but provided for.
Ildis shook her head and turned toward him. "My friend, when thou didst labor for the morrow, thou wert a self-betrayer, because even before night thou might'st have lain on a bier. When thou didst offer up thy youth for thy age, thou wert a spendthrift who bought pebbles for diamonds."
At last the watchman became impatient, shrugged his shoulders, and moodily retired, while his big slippers flapped on the stone pavement.
Night had already come on, and Ildis noted with alarm that she had arrived in front of the forbidding hovel which was inhabited by Muchail, the city swineherd, a giaour of ill-repute, on whom the writer of books had composed the following epigram:
Tobacco, dancing-girls and wine.
By day the city swineherd he,
By night he is the city swine.
