The night had come on, and the king was sitting at the card-table, with Gunther and two of the gentlemen-in-waiting.
A servant came in and informed Gunther that there was a man outside who wished to speak with him at once. Gunther gave his cards to the ever-obliging intendant, and went out where, leaning on his great Alpine staff, his broad-brimmed, crumpled hat in his hand, and his rug thrown over him, stood the little pitchman. He kept his left hand in his pocket, and when Gunther came up to him, he said:
"Here's a paper for you."
Gunther read the note, and then rubbed his eyes and passed his hand across his face, as if to awaken himself.
"Who sent you?" he asked.
"I guess that'll tell you--our Irmgard."
Gunther started at the mention of the name, here before the very door, when within sat the king and the queen--
He went up to the lamp in the corridor, and read the note again. There it stood:
"Eberhard's daughter sends for Gunther."
This man, who had a right to boast that he was always calm and composed, was obliged to support himself by the balusters, and it was some time before he could utter a word. When he looked up, his glance met that of the little pitchman.