"I beg your pardon; pray pardon me," said my worthy uncle, rather startled. "I am a traveller who has lost his way."
"Hey!" cried the other man; "good guide us! Is not that Maître Bernard, of Saverne? You are very welcome indeed, Maître Bernard. Don't you know me?"
"No, indeed! How should I in this dark night?"
"Parbleu!—of course not! But I am Christian; I bring you your contraband snuff every fortnight. But come in, come in! We will soon get a light."
They passed stooping under the little low door, and the woodman, having lighted a pine-torch, stuck it into a split iron rod to serve as a candlestick, and a bright light, clear and white as moonshine, filled the hut, lighting up every corner of it.
Christian, standing in shirt-sleeves, his broad chest uncovered, and with a pair of canvas trousers hitched up about his hips, looked a good-natured fellow enough; his tawny beard came down in a point to his waist; his huge bull head was covered with bristling brown hair; his small grey eyes inspired confidence.
"Take a seat, master," he said, rolling a log of wood before the fire. "Are you hungry?"
"Why, you know, my lad, your mountain air does excite one's appetite."
"Very well; you are just in time. I have got some very good potatoes quite at your service."
At the mention of potatoes Uncle Bernard could not help grimacing; he remembered, with the longing of affection, old Berbel's good suppers, and had a difficulty in coming down to the humble realities before him.