Here was an epic movement indeed, for South St. Louis was a great sod uprooted from the Fatherland and set down in all its vigorous crudity in the warm black mud of the Mississippi Valley.  Here lager beer took the place of Bourbon, and black bread and sausages of hot rolls and fried chicken.  Here were quaint market houses squatting in the middle of wide streets; Lutheran churches, square and uncompromising, and bulky Turner Halls, where German children were taught the German tongue.  Here, in a shady grove of mulberry and locust, two hundred families were spread out at their ease.

For a while Richter sat in silence, puffing at a meerschaum with a huge brown bowl.  A trick of the mind opened for Stephen one of the histories in his father’s library in Beacon Street, across the pages of which had flitted the ancestors of this blue-eyed and great-chested Saxon.  He saw them in cathedral forests, with the red hair long upon their bodies.  He saw terrifying battles with the Roman Empire surging back and forth through the low countries.  He saw a lad of twenty at the head of rugged legions clad in wild skins, sweeping Rome out of Gaul.  Back in the dim ages Richter’s fathers must have defended grim Eresburg.  And it seemed to him that in the end the new Republic must profit by this rugged stock, which had good women for wives and mothers, and for fathers men in whose blood dwelt a fierce patriotism and contempt for cowardice.

This fancy of ancestry pleased Stephen.  He thought of the forefathers of those whom he knew, who dwelt north of Market Street.  Many, though this generation of the French might know it not, had bled at Calais and at Agincourt, had followed the court of France in clumsy coaches to Blois and Amboise, or lived in hovels under the castle walls.  Others had charged after the Black Prince at Poitiers, and fought as serf or noble. in the war of the Roses; had been hatters or tailors in Cromwell’s armies, or else had sacrificed lands and fortunes for Charles Stuart.  These English had toiled, slow but resistless, over the misty Blue Ridge after Boone and Harrod to this old St. Louis of the French, their enemies, whose fur traders and missionaries had long followed the veins of the vast western wilderness.  And now, on to the structure builded by these two, comes Germany to be welded, to strengthen or to weaken.

Richter put down his pipe on the table.

“Stephen,” he said suddenly, “you do not share the prejudice against us here?”

Stephen flushed.  He thought of some vigorous words that Miss Puss Russell had used on the subject of the Dutch.”

“No,” said he, emphatically.

“I am glad,” answered Richter, with a note of sadness, in his voice.  “Do not despise us before you know more of us.  We are still feudal in Germany—­of the Middle Ages.  The peasant is a serf.  He is compelled to serve the lord of the land every year with so much labor of his hands.  The small farmers, the ‘Gross’ and ‘Mittel Bauern’, we call them, are also mortgaged to the nobles who tyrannize our Vaterland.  Our merchants are little merchants—­shopkeepers, you would say.  My poor father, an educated man, was such.  They fought our revolution.”