"I fly, my dear madam!" said Giraldi.
CHAPTER XII.
Elsa's old cook sat on her stool, with her elbows resting upon her knees, staring at the brick floor; August, who was leaning against the window, went on silently cutting his nails with his knife; and Ottomar's servant was perched upon the table, swinging his long legs.
"It has just struck twelve," said the cook, with a despairing look at the hearth, on which the kettle still hung in solitary state over the fire, as it had done since early morning. "Can neither of you at least open your mouths?"
"What is there to say?" answered August "It will always be likely to happen with us soldiers."
"It's a sin and a shame!" said the cook.
"A 1," affirmed August. The Dutch clock ticked, the kettle bubbled. Friedrich let himself slide off the table, and stretched his arms.
"I can't say that I am generally much in favour of these parades," he said, "but it is my opinion that to-day we servants might as well have joined it."
"Yes; the young master always has the best of it," said the cook. "It is well to be out of range of the firing. If I had been in his place, I would have paraded them to-day." She smoothed down her apron. August shook his head.
"With us military men, that would----"