On this particular morning, however, it occurred to his Robblership to inquire in his own mind why the womenkind loved to walk so much by themselves on the mountains. Philippina hadn’t told him, to be sure; Philippina had an eye to Andreas Hausberger herself—was he not the wirth, and the master of the troupe?—and she was therefore by no means averse to any little device which might distract poor Linnet from that most desirable admirer. Still, Franz had his suspicions. Women are so deep, a man can never fathom them! He mounted the Küchelberg by the zig-zag path, and turning to the left by the third Madonna, came at last to a little knoll of bare porphyry rock, looking down on the wide vale and the long falls of the Adige.
A very small and dainty, not to say effeminate, young man, in a knickerbocker suit of most Britannic aspect, was strolling some distance off, with his arm encircling a woman’s plump waist, which suspiciously reminded Franz of his friend Philippina’s. The Robbler could hardly believe his eyes; could that be Herr Florian? Oh no; for they had left the foreign Herrschaft at the hotel at Innsbruck. But here, close by, behind the shadow of some junipers—stranger sight still!—stretched at length on the ground, and reading aloud in German to some unseen person, lay another young man in another tourist suit, with a voice that most strikingly and exactly recalled the other Engländer’s at St Valentin. Franz drew a deep breath, and strode a long step forward. At sound of his foot, the unseen person sprang back where she sat with a quick, small scream. Black as night in his wrath, Franz peered round and faced them. It was undoubtedly Will; quite as undoubtedly Linnet!
The Robbler spoke angrily. “You again!” he cried, clenching his fist, and knitting his brow hard, with bullet head held forward. “Are you following us in hiding? What do you mean by this trick? You daren’t show your face, coward, at our inn in the town! You steal up here and skulk! What do you mean with the mädchen?”
At that imputation of secrecy, and still worse of cowardice, Will sprang up and confronted him. “I dare show my face anywhere you like,” he answered in hot blood. “I have not followed this lady; I came here before her, and met her at Meran by the purest accident. But I refuse to be questioned about her by you or by anyone. What right have you to ask? She is no mädchen of yours. Who gave you any power or authority over her?”
For a moment the Robbler instinct rose fierce and hot in Franz Lindner’s breast. He drew back half a pace, as if making ready to spring at him. In a few angry words he repeated his cutting taunts, and spoke savagely to Linnet. “Go home, go home, girl; you are here for no good! What can this Engländer want, save one thing, with a sennerin?”
He laid his hand roughly on Linnet’s shoulder. Will couldn’t stand that sight; he clutched the man’s arm fiercely, twisted it round in the socket, and pushed him back like a child, in the white heat of his anger. Franz saw the interloper was strong—far stronger than he supposed. “If you dare to lay your hand on this lady again,” Will cried, standing in front of her like a living buckler, “I give you due warning, you do it at your peril. Your life is at stake. I won’t permit you to behave with brutality before me.”
In his native valley the Robbler would have flown at Will’s throat on those words, and fought him, strong as he was, to the death, for his mädchen. But since he came to Meran he had learned some new ways: such were not, he now knew, the manners of civilisation. Will’s resolute attitude even produced a calming effect upon the young barbarian. He felt in his heart he had a better plan than that. To beat Will in fair fight would, after all, be useless; the mädchen wouldn’t abide, as mädchen ought, by the wager of battle. But he could wound him far worse. He could go down to the town—and tell Andreas Hausberger how his ward spent her mornings on the slopes of the Küchelberg!
Already he was learning the ways of the world. With a sarcastic smile, he raised his hat ceremoniously, turned feather and all, in mock politeness. “Good morning, mein Herr,” he drawled out, with a fine north German accent, picked up in the billiard-rooms. “Good morning, sennerin.” And without another word he strode away down the mountain.
But as soon as he was gone Linnet burst into tears. “Ah, I know what he’ll do!” she cried, sobbing and trembling. “He’ll go down to the town and tell Andreas Hausberger. He’ll go down to the town and tell how he met us here. And, of course, after this, Andreas will put the very worst face upon it.”