"Which is just what he is—in appearance, I mean, judging by his pictures."
"You have seen his pictures?"
"Oh, yes—you are really rather like him, only browner and bigger,
56 perhaps. Yet I am glad that you are a chamois-hunter and not an emperor—as glad as you can be."
"Will you tell me why, lady?"
"Oh, for one reason because I could not ask him to do what I'm going to ask of you. You have laid the bread and ham ready, but you forgot to cut it."
"A thousand pardons. Our conversation has sent my wits wool-gathering. My mind should have been on my manners, instead of such far-off things as emperors." He began hewing at the black loaf as if it were an enemy to be conquered. And there were few in Rhaetia who had ever seen those dark eyes so bright.
"I like ham and bread cut thin, if you please," said Sylvia. "There—that is better. I will sit here, if you will bring the things to me. You are very kind—and I find that I am tired."
"A draught of our Rhaetian beer will put better heart into you, it may be," suggested the hunter, taking up the plate of bread and meat he had cut, placing it in her hand, and returning to draw a tankard of 57 foaming amber liquid from a quaint hogshead in a corner.
But Sylvia waved the krug away with a smile and a pretty gesture. "My head has proved to be not strong enough for your mountains; I'm sure it isn't strong enough for your beer. Have you some cold water?"