The landlady nodded assent.
“And cold chickens, and tongues, and coffee, and all those sort of things. I shall take guides from Ruhpolding.”
“Herr Baron,” cried a tall peasant, who had been leaning against the half-open door and listening attentively to every word that had been said—“Herr Baron, you promised to employ me the next time you went there. I could go to Frauenstein for the key to-night, and meet you in Ruhpolding to-morrow.”
“Off with you, then,” cried Baron Z—, “and be sure to be there at five o’clock to-morrow.”
“Or at half-past six,” said A. Z.; “and don’t forget to take the largest bags you can find.”
The man nodded his head, scraped one of his heavy shoes upon the floor, and disappeared.
Baron Z—, who was one of the most restless beings Hamilton had ever seen, now walked up and down the room, looked out of the windows as well as the thick leaves of the numerous cactus plants would permit, played with all the ugly, strange dogs in the room, and after having seated himself for a minute or two on every unoccupied chair he could find, he finally joined the guests at the other table, and in a few minutes was discussing politics with an elderly man who had been poring over the pages of the newspapers; then he listened and related sporting anecdotes to another, who from his dress he knew must be a Jäger; with the wood-ranger he talked of timber, the drifts of wood in the neighbourhood; and during the first pause in the conversation, he took up a guitar which was lying on the table and commenced singing Tyrolean songs, with such spirit and humour that his audience unanimously joined in chorus, each taking the part suiting his voice with a precision so surprising to Hamilton that he asked A. Z. if they had often sung together before.
“Never that I am aware of,” she answered examining more attentively the singers; “I do not think Herrmann is acquainted with even one of them.”
The music within seemed to inspire some musicians without, for no sooner had it ceased than the gay notes of a zither were heard—an instrument which Hamilton had never seen, and which A. Z. told him was well worth the trouble of an examination. He was about to leave the room for the purpose, when he met the landlady carrying in the soup for supper; he stopped embarrassed, but Baron Z—, without further ceremony, called in the peasant, who was the best performer, and gave him a place beside him at the table. The man tuned his zither and began to play what he called “Laendlers,” perhaps from the word land or country, simple waltzes to which the peasants dance, and which A. Z. assured Hamilton, when accompanied by a guitar, and the time beaten by the dancing of feet and the snapping of fingers, at a target-shooting match, or a wedding, was the very gayest music she had ever heard.
They were all in high spirits the next morning, when they met soon after sunrise, for the weather promised to be extremely fine, indeed sultry, if an unclouded sky at so early an hour might be depended upon. Hamilton was, therefore, not a little surprised at the number of cloaks and shawls with which the carriage was lumbered, and at Baron Z—’s dress. He had on the same grey shooting jacket and green felt hat in which he had first seen him—but he had also black knee-breeches, and worsted stockings drawn half-way up his thighs, but which were so elastic that they could be pushed below the knees, where clinging to the legs, they formed folds at a distance resembling top-boots. A large pouch hung at his side, and in his hand he carried a long pole with an iron point. Hamilton was also given one as he got into the carriage, and they drove off amidst the heartiest wishes for good weather and their enjoyment of it.