“He is trying the upper road belike, and the deep snow has detained him.”
“No, no,” said another, “Old Cristoph’s too knowing for that: bad as the lower road is, the upper is worse; and with the storm of last night, there will be drift there deep enough to swallow horse and mail-cart twice over.”
“There may be fallen snow on the lower road,” whispered a third; “Cristoph told me last week he feared it would not be safe for another journey.”
“He’s a daring old fellow,” said the Post-master, as he resumed his walk up and down to keep his feet warm; “but he’ll try that lower road once too often. He can’t bear the upper road because it is a new one, and was not made when he was a boy. He thinks that the world is not half so wise, or so good, as it was some fifty years back.”
“If he make no greater mistakes than that,” muttered an old white-headed hostler, “he may be trusted to choose his own road.”
“What’s that Philip is mumbling?” said the Post-master; but a general cry of “Here he comes! Here he is now!” interrupted the answer.
“See how he drives full speed over the bridge!” exclaimed the Post-master, angrily. “Potz-Teufel! if the Burgomaster hears it, I shall have to pay a fine of four gulden; and I would not wonder if the noise awoke him.”
There was less exaggeration than might be supposed in this speech, for Old Cristoph, in open defiance of all German law, which requires that nothing faster than a slow walk should be used in crossing a wooden bridge, galloped at the full stride of his beast, making every crazy plank and timber tremble and vibrate with a crash like small arms.
Never relaxing in his speed, the old man drove at his fastest pace through the narrow old Roman gate, up the little paved hill, round the sharp corner, across the Platz, into the main street, and never slackened till he pulled up with a jerk at the door of the post-house: when, springing from his seat, he detached the lamp from its place, and thrust it into the waggon, crying with a voice that excitement had elevated into a scream,—“He’s alive still!—I’ll swear I heard him sigh! I know he’s alive!”
It is hard to say what strange conjectures might have been formed of the old man’s sanity, had he not backed his words by stooping down and lifting from the straw, at the bottom of the cart, the seemingly dead body of a boy, which, with the alacrity of one far younger, he carried up the steps, down the long arched passage, and into the kitchen, where he laid him down before the fire.