“Does that really exist?” said the stranger. “I have read of it in the ‘Letters of a Wandering Ghost.’”
This was a beautiful morning, the sun shone warmly, the sea was smooth as a mirror, and so much the faster did the steamboat glide away. The vessel with the mail, which had set sail two hours earlier, still lay not far from land. The sails hung down loosely; not a breeze stirred them.
The steamboat glided close past her; the passengers in the mail-vessel, the greater portion coachmen, travelling journeymen, and peasants, stood on the deck to see it. They waved greetings. One of the foremost leaned on his knotty stick, pulled off his hat, and shouted, “Good morning, my noble gentlefolk!” It was the German Heinrich; he then was going to Funen. Otto’s heart beat faster, he gazed down among the rushing waves which foamed round the paddle, where the sunbeams painted a glorious rainbow.
“That is lovely!” said one of the strangers, close to him.
“Very lovely!” returned Otto, and stilled the sigh which would burst forth from his breast.
Scarcely two hours were fled—the cables were flung upon the Nyborg bridge of boats, and the steamboat made fast to the island of Funen.
CHAPTER XXXII
“It is so sweet when friendly hands bid you a hearty
welcome, so dear to behold well-known features, wherever you
turn your eyes. Everything seems so home-like and quiet
about you and in your own breast.” HENRIETTE HAUCK.
Otto immediately hired a carriage, and reached the hall just about dinner-time. In the interior court-yard stood two calashes and an Holstein carriage; two strange coachmen, with lace round their hats, stood in animated discourse when Otto drove in through the gate. The postilion blew his horn.