And the player fell silent, musing upon the ways of men and women and of love. Let a bride but elude her lover's embrace, what surer road shall she find to a revealing of his ardour?
CHAPTER XXII
THE CABINET NOIR
"Good even, sir,
But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg?"
(Hamlet).
Night had completely fallen. A full moon was forging up the sky, like some superb ship beating up the wind, all sail spread and defying the tumultuous seas of cloud, when the comrades emerged from the woodland and halted before the inn.
"The Three Ways," for a poor roadside house, held unwontedly merry company to-night, to judge by the medley of shout and song that rang out from its upper windows.
The fiddler, mounting the steps that led to the door, gave a few knocks with special emphasis. To this there was no response. Laughing silently, he waited awhile, then suddenly betook himself to his violin, at its highest pitch. Too much engrossed with their own music, unhearing, perhaps, through the rolling of the wind, the first-floor revellers paid no heed to knocks or notes; but below there was immediate stirring. The bolts screeched under a hasty hand.
"Ach! you, Geiger-Onkel!" cried the hostess, as she stood revealed on the threshold. "You will have your joke! ... We thought it was the police commissary's rap! Ah, heavens, what times these are! One's heart is in one's throat all day, all night."
She clasped her hands upon her flat bosom, but suddenly catching sight of the rider, forgot to pant that she might the better stare.
"'Tis but a new brother of mine," said the fiddler, carelessly. "Send the kerl for his horse.—So you have some of the boys here? Well, I bring news for them. Come, comrade, you must be weary."