The Sandwirth, however, would not retract.
"Play like that," said he, thoughtfully and impressively, as though he weighed every word before he spoke it, "is often as fatiguing as work; and it sometimes leads to quarrels, and to taking God's holy name in vain. Anyhow, it is not _rest_; and God bade us _rest_, mind you, on the Sabbath-day."
"No, pleasure is often the hardest of work," said the Sandwirth.
"That's true, too," said Speckbacher, as if a sudden light streamed in upon him.
"Well, I know, to lie on my back with nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs, would to me be the hardest work of all," said Franz.
"I wonder," said Speckbacher, after a short pause, "if such are your views, that you mean to have a Sunday shooting-match at all."
"I've a purpose," said the Wirth in a low voice; and then, in a louder key, as he rose and went towards the door, "I am going forth to look at the weather, sir," said he. "The storm has, I think, overblown; but if not, and you like to pass the night here, my wife shall prepare you a bed."
"By no means; if the weather is really clearing up," said the traveller, "I shall yet push on; for it is not late."
"The clouds have rolled off, and the valley is sparkling in the last sun-gleam," said the Wirth.
While the good woman was mustering change, the traveller rested his chin on his knuckles, and attentively surveyed Speckbacher.
He was undeniably one of Nature's chieftains. His height was uncommon, and his lofty carriage of the neck and head, when excited, worthy of one of the old Greeks. But often that gallant head drooped, and a look of deep depression shaded his countenance. There was something intrepid in his mien; he was one from whom you would never expect to hear a lie, or a sentiment that was base. His language was homely, but energetic; his features were good, his hair and eyes coal-black. His age might be thirty-five.
Franz was full ten years younger, and had tolerable features, but a kind of rakish, good-for-nothing air that was rather repelling.
"Why won't you have anything to say to me?" he was asking Theresa. "You seem to be knitting all your wits into that blue worsted stocking. If Rudolf, now, were here, you'd brighten up directly."