"By no means; if the weather is really clearing up," said the traveller, "I shall yet push on; for it is not late."
"The clouds have rolled off, and the valley is sparkling in the last sun-gleam," said the Wirth.
"Very well. How much to pay?"
"Fifty kreutzers," said the hostess.
"Can you change me this zwanziger?"
While the good woman was mustering change, the traveller rested his chin on his knuckles, and attentively surveyed Speckbacher.
He was undeniably one of Nature's chieftains. His height was uncommon, and his lofty carriage of the neck and head, when excited, worthy of one of the old Greeks. But often that gallant head drooped, and a look of deep depression shaded his countenance. There was something intrepid in his mien; he was one from whom you would never expect to hear a lie, or a sentiment that was base. His language was homely, but energetic; his features were good, his hair and eyes coal-black. His age might be thirty-five.
Franz was full ten years younger, and had tolerable features, but a kind of rakish, good-for-nothing air that was rather repelling.
"Why won't you have anything to say to me?" he was asking Theresa. "You seem to be knitting all your wits into that blue worsted stocking. If Rudolf, now, were here, you'd brighten up directly."