ith success and praise. He knew
that his renown would go circling out over the whole country-side, and
every farmer who had been at church this day would carry home the
mighty speech of Florian Hausbaum more accurately than the sermon. He
was great as in the olden days, and his heart swelled with pride.

Then came the shriek of a siren from the other end of the village.
"Another stinking devil," they said. "Get out of the road, Florie."

But the old carter remained standing there with widespread feet, and
his white hair blew about wildly in the spring breeze. He knew that
signal; it came from a great machine that tore through the country
every day, as if the point were to rescue and prevent a misfortune,
instead of conjuring up one. And this machine was hated throughout the
whole Carinthian land.

"Here I stand," shouted the old man in a frenzy, "and here I'll stay
and not let a single auto out o' the village!"

He had just had a pleasant experience, and thought every machine would
stop for him like the last one. But the monster was already at hand,
and as for stopping, it could not even if the driver had wished to. An
angry shout in the machine, a horrified wail rising from a hundred
voices, and with a mighty leap the automobile crashed over the toppled
obstacle, jumped, dragged, and tore itself along for ten full paces
more, despite brakes and cut-out, and not until then did it come to a
stop. The occupants, wealthy young people, leaped out. There lay Florie
Hausbaum by the roadside.

The automobile had fatally injured him and hurled him to one side. Now
every one ran for aid, and the giddy young people cursed the fact that
their machine was so well known; they feared that assistance here would
be dangerous. But not a soul said a cross word to them. So they knelt
beside the injured white-bearded victim, wiped the blood from his face,
and opened his vest,

As the physician was working over him, Florian Hausbaum awoke once more
in this life.

He looked about him, and drew breaths of pain and affliction. But the
wonderful spring air of that day penetrated even his crushed lungs like
a mild wine in a parched throat. Intoxicating was this air, as of yore;
weak and peaceful, victorious and beloved he was, as of yore: when he
had saved the precious red wine.

Then, in his wandering mind, all his evil days vanished, and all
hatred. Age was forgotten, and at this moment, when his soul began to
flutter its wings like