"Ay, and thirsty," replied Gustav, reaching out his hand for the bottle. "Is your wine good?"
The man shrugged his shoulders.
"Drink and judge for yourself," he answered. "It's the best we have."
"Then drink with us," said my companion, good-humouredly, filling a glass and pushing it towards him across the table.
But he shook his head with an ungracious "Nein, nein," and again left the room. The next moment we heard his heavy footfall going to and fro overhead.
"He is preparing our beds," I said. "Are there no women, I wonder, about the place?"
"Well, yes—this looks like one," laughed Bergheim, as the door leading to the inner kitchen again opened, and a big stolid-looking peasant girl came in with a smoking dish of ham and eggs, which she set down before us on the table. "Stop! stop!" he exclaimed, as she turned away. "Don't be in such a hurry, my girl. What is your name?"
She stopped with a bewildered look, but said nothing. Bergheim repeated the question.
"My—my name?" she stammered. "Annchen."
"Good. Then, Annchen" (filling a bumper and draining it at a draught), "I drink to thy health. Wilt thou drink to mine?" And he pointed to the glass poured out for the landlord's brother.