"With you, and where?" asked the innkeeper. If there was one thing for which he could not account, it was the presence of Hillars at the inn.
"Never mind where, but come," answered Hillars, gayly. He bent and whispered something into the old fellow's ear. It was something which pleased him, for he screwed his lips into a smile, and took the white hand of the whisperer in his brawny fist and nigh crushed it.
"Well, well! it doesn't matter where you came from. Here, you," to the trio behind him, "go back to the stables." They filed out. Then the innkeeper took Hillars by the arm. "Come along; time passes."
"And where are you going?" I asked anxiously. Hillars should not have passed from my sight but for Gretchen.
"We'll be back shortly," he answered. "You will know all about then, my son."
He stood on the sill of the door, a handsome picture. His gray eyes sparkled, his face was full of excitement and there was a color in his cheeks. There was no sign here of the dissipated man of the night before. It was Hillars as I had seen him in the old days. But for his 19th century garb, he might have just stepped down from a frame—a gallant by Fortuny, who loved the awakened animal in man. The poise was careless, but graceful, and the smile was debonair. His eyes were holding Gretchen's. A moment passed; another and another.
Then: "Long live and God bless her Serene Highness the Princess
Hildegarde!" And he was gone.
And as he disappeared a shadow of some sort passed before my eyes, and a something dull and heavy pressed upon my heart. Presently came the sound of beating hoofs, and then all became still.
Gretchen and I were alone.
Gretchen appeared to be studying the blue veins in her hands which she listlessly held before her. An interval of three or four minutes passed, still she remained in that pathetic attitude, silent and motionless.